Lancer Round-Up
by StarGzer
Summary: This is intended to be a place for shorter stories or 'one-shots' that really don't have a home of their own. Most of these are older works, some may be serious, some may be silly, etc. Like a ride on the range, you never know what you'll find. Enjoy, StarGzer
1. In Absentia

Warnings: None. Pre-'High-Riders' Murdoch. Set a year after he visited Boston.

In Absentia

It had taken them nearly a week to get the grain harvested—with more than enough left over to sell. A wry grin tightened his lips, there'd been so little last year. Murdoch straightened, grinding his knuckles into the small of his back. The squeaking of the pump handle dragged his attention from the burlap bags neatly lined up against the back wall of the barn.

Outside, Paul was filling a tin cup at the pump. The ranch dog ambled over from the corral with a stick in his mouth, but the foreman wasn't in a throwing mood.

"Morning, Paul. It'll be good to get rid of that grain to make more room."

"Murdoch. You look like you got some sleep last night."

"Did I look all that done in?"

Paul smiled. "You were moving on sheer determination and not much else for the last week."

The work was necessary as expenses piled up. Trips down south and the one back east had taken a bite out of his bank account. He looked around: the hills were dry, the color of old gold, ruffled with lines of grape here and there. The thought occurred to him that he could take another ride to San Diego where the lead on Maria had gone cold, before winter actually set in.

A wagon drew up in the yard.

It was Santee, coming to collect his grain. The dog stood off a few paces, yapping and making quick runs at the horses' hind hooves.

"Enough of that! Get away!" Murdoch grabbed the stick and let it fly over the corral gate. The dog scrambled after it, the strange wagon and its occupant momentarily forgotten.

Santee set the brake and slipped down from the seat. He suddenly yelled out, "Peter stay in the wagon!"

Murdoch wheeled around and grabbed the elbow of a thin young boy, all of six or seven, before it could clip him in the stomach. Blond hair had grown out from a short cut, his freckles stark brown against paler skin. Murdoch's heart gave a little bump.

"What do you say, Peter?" Santee prodded.

"Sorry, Sir." His voice dropped a little with disappointment. "I thought we could play with your dog."

Santee trotted over, "Boy hasn't grown into his arms or legs yet, Mr. Lancer."

"No damage done."

A second child tumbled out of the wagon bed, running full tilt in that lopsided way only children or drunks could manage. This one was younger by a few years, darker of hair. Murdoch bent down and scooped him up, smelling the sweet-sourness of sweaty, laughing boy.

Peter's smile faded, hands fisted at his sides. "Let him go."

"Peter!"

Murdoch put the child down. "No, it's all right. I should have asked first. Didn't mean to cause a problem."

Santee tucked an arm around the eldest boy's shoulders. "Take your brother and sit in the wagon."

"I don't mind if they play with dog. The fact is, he's partial to stick throwing and can't get enough of it."

The idea seemed to delight Peter. His eyes shone in the sunlight. "Can we?"

His voice was so full of childish excitement and wonder that Murdoch smiled for the first time in he didn't know how long. There was nothing forced about it, nothing feigned. It felt good, and wrong, and guilty. But it was a smile, and Peter looked at him like playing with a dog might just be the greatest thing that had ever happened.

"Wait a minute." Santee dropped to one knee, doing up the buttons on the dark-haired boy. Murdoch remembered there were a lot of doing them up and getting them undone with little boys. Every time he turned around, Johnny would have another one loose. He used to think the boy was doing it on purpose.

Santee waited until the children were with Paul and the dog.

"My wife died late last year, and Peter has taken to protecting his brother. I found him making toast on a kitchen stove he can't see the top of yet. Davy started crying the other night, and by the time I got there, Peter was already out of bed, rocking him like a twenty year old little man."

Santee shook his head. "I don't understand them half the time, but I don't know what I'd do without them, either."

Murdoch could only see Catherine's death as it had been replayed for him, staring at her grave marker, horrified, knowing how it ended. Scott was the memory of a five year old: blonde hair and laughing grin, shiny shoes and starched collar, the images diffused through remorse and guilt. Given Harlan's machinations, he thought he did the right thing at the time. But now it wasn't so clear.

He tried to imagine his life before Maria took their little boy. The smell of her perfume wasn't something he could easily conjure, but that didn't stop Murdoch from wondering if the gambler she left with liked it, too. Johnny was an easier memory, but one centered on promises and failure.

He missed both of his sons with a fierce ache.

His mind balked. He closed his eyes to hold back everything, and it stopped nothing. Cautiously, he opened them again, realized his heart was hammering too hard.

"I'm sorry Santee, but the grain isn't ready."

He could see Paul's head jerk up in confusion.

"You said you'd have ten bags ready for me to pick-up today."

"Ten," the younger boy repeated, holding up both hands and not enough fingers.

"We just couldn't get it done in time."

Lines of irritation formed on Santee's brow. "When will it be ready?"

"Wednesday. We can have it done by Wednesday. With an extra two bags for your trouble."

Santee huffed out a sigh. "Then I'll bring payment on Wednesday, too, not a day before. Come along boys, we're leaving."

Murdoch nodded and watched Peter herd his brother into Santee's waiting arms, how all three sat close together on the box seat when their horses picked up speed going out of the yard.

He felt Paul beside him. "Those sacks of grain are stacked right there in the barn. Why'd you tell him we didn't have them?"

It was ridiculously immature, Murdoch knew, but he was feeling stung. Santee would bring the money on Wednesday, but those children were too young to leave alone at the house—he would have to bring them, too.

The End

09~15~15

\- In Absentia: Latin for 'in the absence' or 'while absent'


	2. Deal

Warnings: None.

Deal

Content to be friendly since the evening had gone well, she gifted a smile. He caught it and hung on. A black-as-night shank of hair hanging over his right eye added mystery, as did the low-riding rig. His clothes were south-of-the border colorful and he wore them well.

She took a sip of whiskey.

Then he smiled back. Lethal, she thought, watching the way his blue eyes darkened. It made him look young, capable of all sorts of mischief. The sort of mischief she could attend to, given the proper venue.

She shifted, drew her finger across the velveteen table and looked at his companion.

Tall, lean, light. Mussed hair colored like a wheat field and eyes blue-grey as an upcoming storm. Not hard to look at, she mused, tapping a fingernail on her glass as they stared at each other. He had a good mouth—sculpted. But he wasn't smiling. Not now. Those eyes were cool, calculating—and confident.

She sipped again.

His features were sharp, good bones. And this one, unless she was mistaken, had blue blood beneath the dusty cowboy clothes. More of a gamble, and she preferred a gamble.

She drew back the cards. "Deal?"

The End

Edited: 10~'15


	3. Rosemary and Time

Warnings: None, but it may be a bit sentimental. First written in '08 or '09, yikes.

Rosemary and Time

She saw him get down from his dusty cow pony and approach her counter. Dressed in jeans pockmarked with dried mud and scuffed boots, it looked like he had put in a good days work and then some. He might have been twenty-three or twenty-four and—judging by his stiff gait—not a cowboy. He was fair skinned, or at least he might have been under all that sunburn. Even his nose was peeling. All in all, those flaws didn't detract from his handsomeness any. Presently, he took off his battered slouch hat to reveal straight blond hair and a brow furrowed in thought. He fingered the crown while waiting briefly for a table.

He struck Rosemary as just about right.

She'd seen plenty of men over the last few days. There was a rodeo in Green River and the excess had spilled over to Morro Coyo, and into the dining room of the café. Considering her vast experience over the last two days, she imagined she knew "right" when she saw it.

He slowly drank the last of his coffee, set the cup back down on the saucer, and met her glance. He had grey-blue eyes that were full of shadows.

"Miss, what would you do if you were about finished?" he asked.

"What was that, Mister?"

He repeated himself, weighing each word out carefully.

"I guess I'd get up and fight some more," avowed Rosemary.

"And what if you were knocked back down?"

"I'd get back up again. It wouldn't make any difference—at least I would've tried and kept at it, no matter how long it took." She nodded for emphasis.

He looked at her intently for a few moments, his jaw set. "I'll take your words of wisdom and won't quit. When they get the best of me—if they get the best of me, I'll get up and fight some more."

His voice softened. "I'm not often in town, have I seen you before?"

"No, I'm just here to help my uncle with the extra foot traffic." She shrugged. "The rodeo, you know."

He nodded absently, rubbing at a chip in the side of the saucer. "And I would assume every cowboy around has asked you to go."

She was aware of emotions bubbling up inside her. "Well, not quite," she hedged.

He gave her a long gaze that ended in the sunshine of a smile. "To tell you the truth, I don't know much about rodeos. But I'd be honored to escort you to this one. It would be proper, if that worries you."

"I don't think…"

"Would you?" he prompted.

What a nice face he had! "It wouldn't be so bad to go," she said, smoothing an errant strand of hair back over her ear.

He stood and his blue eyes went serious again. "Thank you, Miss Rosemary. For everything."

She watched him from the door, striding out to gather the reins of his pony tied at the rail. He turned and put a finger to his hat and smiled once more. "Until this afternoon, then."

The End


	4. WHN: Warburton's Edge

Warnings: A few swear words but nothing you won't find on the television, and probably a 'harder' Johnny than what I usually write. It would be best if you've seen the episode _Warburton's Edge_ before reading.

What Happened Next: Warburton's Edge

The green smell of valley seeping through a gap in the barn's window greeted Scott, along with Johnny's prickly silence, hidden behind a span of leather saddle and hank of Barranca's mane. His brother was in a rush to leave, yet no real reason for the hurry. Murdoch hadn't given orders. They'd both been at the table when their father sifted through the newspaper over his morning cup of coffee, murmuring something about stock in Allenville. So yes, no hurry. Because Harvey Mitchell's cows would still be there a day from now. Yet Johnny snapped up the chore like a dog eyeing a meaty bone.

The trail was known to Scott, both the dusty, rutted one that pointed northeast to the Mitchell ranch, and the more insidious one Johnny seemed to be on.

First, the trip to Sacramento to file the injunction then the mess at Lancer with Warburton, and Murdoch coming close to getting killed. Now to look at stock in another county. He'd almost forgotten which room his bed was located in, perhaps he should set up in the stables, just roll out of bed and onto a horse and go.

He understood what Murdoch was doing with the cattle—diversifying in a low market was always good strategy—and with Johnny, too. The trip to Allenville had all the earmarks of trying to get said son off Lancer for a period of time.

Yet Johnny's silence was hard for Scott to endure. Nothing so unusual about a long pause, not where his brother was concerned, but this one was poisonous somehow, because of what had gone on before.

The flat valley land fled by at a gallop, nothing moving but them.

"You had to fire." Scott cajoled, tried to sound reasonable. Reasonable sometimes worked with Johnny. "Isham would have killed you or Murdoch, or both."

Johnny wasn't going to go for that, though, not today. Not after he had told Scott what Isham had said: 'Johnny boy wouldn't side against his own kind.' _His own kind._ Those few words had stuck burr tight to his brother, as if it posed a dichotomy between the Johnny before Lancer and the Johnny now.

They shared a quick look, and Scott knew that was all the attention his brother was going to give him, because Scott could have looking and he could have talking, but not at the same time usually. Johnny's eyes were back to the road, mouth chewing anger like a stampede string. "Why'd he do it?"

"He did it because of who he was." Scott flicked his reins, thought about it some more. "You're not Isham, brother, no matter how hard you try to fit yourself into that square."

Johnny flinched.

#-#-#-#-#

Shoulda kept that Isham shit to himself, Johnny thought. But he was sick of keeping things to himself, could barely hold it all in, and then he was slamming the door shut and walking out of the hacienda to the barn in a hurry to get away. He felt a need to ride, and to keep going, like that would make things better.

Inside Allenville's one hotel, the room was exactly as he imagined it from outside: shabby and cheap. Perfect, he just wanted an empty room. "Scott, you should…" Yeah, like he should be giving advice to anyone.

Scott blinked once, eyes squinting as though the lamp on the table was too bright. He looked dead on his feet after looking at all those cows at Mitchell's and a quick café meal. But he nodded, willing to take the advice.

Johnny glanced at his pocket watch, and shook his head. Wasn't particularly late, but sleep was its own way of gettin' through things. Scott looked like he could sleep his way through an explosion. Johnny's lips twitched. Maybe they'd get a chance to see if that was true.

Scott dropped into the bed with a muffled groan of sleepy pleasure. Johnny shoved the saddlebags to one side of the table and went to his own bed, bounced his hand along the mattress. Pretty soft for a hotel like this, the blanket didn't have too many holes, either. By the time he looked up again, Scott was fast asleep.

He stared at the light head against the reasonably white pillowcase and found he was biting the inside of his mouth, hard. Well, he wasn't going to stay here and watch Scott sleep. Even he knew that wasn't a good idea.

Slipping on his jacket, he checked that his pistol was fully loaded, and buckled it carefully on his hip. Took a knife from the saddle bags, and tucked it into his boot. A precaution was all. He grabbed his brother's holster that was draped over the back of the chair and slid the heavy Colt next to Scott's pillow. It wasn't unusual, no matter what his brother thought. It was called bein' _ready_.

He stepped to the door and out.

He tried the saloon first, because he thought he wanted some company. The bar was usually a good place for him and his smile. A round of cards, win a few dollars, figure out which girl he might want to take upstairs. A quick wrestle in bed was all the distraction he wanted.

But not even that, he discovered.

Opportunity was not the problem: one brunette, one blonde, both real fetching in that barroom way, the prettier one hung off a cowboy who was too drunk to be too flustered. Her hand rested on the man's thigh as she stood too close to his chair. Johnny wanted the cowboy to notice, wanted that more than he wanted the girl. He didn't really want the woman, he wanted to fight. More precisely, he wanted to hit something so bad he ached all over and he hadn't had so much alcohol that he failed to recognize what a bad place a saloon was when this mood struck.

To be honest, though, he'd never really been in this exact mood before, so he didn't quite know what to make of it.

What was it Scott called about workin' with Warburton? A noble plan. So he decided to cut his losses. Said goodbye to the regretful brunette and the attentive blonde. He leaned over the pock-marked counter and talked quietly to the bartender for a few minutes.

There was nothin' easier to find than some private backroom poker in a town this size. He walked out of the Crystal Palace, leaving the piano squawking an out-of-tune rendition of Sweet Betsey. The surrounding stores were dark, but it was a pretend city compared to San Francisco or San Diego. Everything quiet and sleepy. Stepping down hard, he made his spurs jangle so it didn't seem so alone.

His turn-off point as described by the bartender was a whitewashed sign advertising a new railroad depot at Modesto. The alley he was looking for jagged off to the right. A huge man, long billy club hugging his hip, stood guard before the door like it opened to his sister's bedroom. But he took one long look at the holster on Johnny's thigh, gave a quick shrug—a bullet beat a piece of wood any day of the week—and moved aside.

The hard bite of tequila and a good game, not too high of standards, were they? The thought came to him that Johnny Lancer should have better ones, but he shrugged it away and opened the door.

The room was lit up as if coal oil was free, and a man at the side of the table gave him a thorough once-over as soon as he was through the door, the overhead bell signaling his arrival.

Johnny glanced back as it closed behind him. The bartender had said the game was made up of travelers tonight and that he'd probably be welcome. The dealer was wearing cotton tick, two scratchy holes in the elbow. Poor farmer, stuck in a back alley past midnight, with a mealy shirt and tired eyes. Probably forking out cards to make a little extra grubstake, he would take home a piece of the pot if the game was lucky enough. From the gold band around his left finger, maybe he had a wife to provide for.

Two others were hard core, right down to the pistols on their hips. The third was a drummer and coming up last, was a serious-looking cowboy.

"Lookin' for a game to pass the time," he said to the room. "The bartender told me there was a good one here."

He had to stand still for a minute, amazed at how fast the flush of excitement washed over him. There was a mirror against the wall, one of those curved expensive ones, on a base of pure mahogany. He stopped a moment, spared a glance at his reflection.

He was fine, he told himself.

It was seven card draw, and though he wasn't fussy about cards, he realized he didn't have a whole lot of cash in his wallet, either. Should've hit Scott up before leaving the hotel. Only then there'd be two of them, because tired or not, Scott would've followed.

He brought out enough of what he had to make a show of intent. A five dollar banknote. Three one-dollar bills. Some coins that rattled around in his front pocket. He was counting quarters when the cowboy beside him slapped down his cards. Johnny didn't pay any attention, not until he heard, "You thievin' bastard!"

 _Hell. He just wanted to play a game of cards._

Two guns popped up, one held at an awkward angle, a clumsy grip that would probably take off a few fingers if it was actually fired, and the other held low and easy by the tall man with a fancy striped vest. Looked like he knew how to use it, too. Johnny could wait them out. He'd be the only one because the drummer's eyes cocked back in his head and his body did a slow slide down his chair to the floor. The smart cowboy was already being helpful by emptying his own pockets out to the table.

"You alone?" one of the robbers drawled, a southern accent turned it to an invitation and made the hold-up sound like a barn social.

Then Johnny thought about the question. Dios. He got up from his chair, held his arms away from his sides. "Does it look like I got anybody with me?" The guard outside was probably in on the whole thing. He wasn't exactly busting down the door trying to get in.

Johnny didn't much care.

"Keep them where we can see 'em!" the short one shouted, excited.

"Give' em the pile," Johnny hissed to the farmer, who was whey pale and looked like he was going to be sick.

Fancy pulled back his revolver's hammer with a loud click.

"Give him what you've got," Johnny continued, voice soft, falling into persuasion.

The farmer shook his head.

"Give him what you got, or I'll come over there and get it myself."

"You!" Shorty again. Johnny could see a downy moustache above crooked teeth. A kid, out looking to make a name. "Put your gun on the table."

Johnny did as he was told and turned to Fancy, glanced down at his Army Remington. It was a mistake, to pay that much attention, because the man gave him a look and swung his gun around, knowing where the threat really lay.

Shorty was behind the dealer now, stuffing dollars into his pocket. A few more seconds and this would be over.

Fancy spoke, "Your gun? It's mine now." Huh. Ambitious bastard. Johnny didn't look at him, but stared at Shorty because the fool had put his pistol on the table beside the dealer so he'd have both hands to scoop up coinage.

"That gun right there?" Johnny exchanged the question for an extra few seconds as he shifted his weight onto the balls of his feet.

"Yeah, that one. You can give me your coat, too," Fancy said, and smiled.

Slowly, he lowered his hands and his eyes, because the man had already recognized a murderous look and Johnny didn't want to give him any extra warning. He leaned back like he was just shrugging out of his coat, but instead grabbed his pistol from the pile and swung it into Fancy's face like it was a brick, breaking his nose with a fantastic crack, not stopping until the butt found teeth.

He would have broken fingers on a punch like that, but the gun took it and then some. With his other hand, Johnny grabbed Fancy's weapon from a now loose grip, slid it across the floor where it bounced off the drummer's chest and spun under the spindles of a far chair.

Fancy was bent over, blood pouring between his empty fingers. Then Johnny brought up his knee, the hard cap smashing into the man's face, sending him flying backwards.

Only then did he spare a glance to Shorty, who stood hypnotized behind the dealer, mouth open. _Do it_ , Johnny thought, not real sure whether he had said it out loud. His eyes darted to Shorty's gun, a million miles away on the table.

Shorty was stupid enough to make a sudden grab for the gun, and Johnny shook his head in irritation, whipped out his revolver and aimed. The boy stopped cold, eyes landing on his partner bleeding on the floor, then to the gun on the table.

Johnny didn't say anything, surprised he had no clear idea of what he wanted to happen.

The dealer started screaming and dropped to the floor with a shriek.

At that moment, Johnny felt a hand curl around his ankle and the room tilted sideways when he fell to his side. Fancy got to his knees. Earlier that evening Johnny had wanted to hit something and here was a something, just lurching into his line of fire.

Everything slowed and he saw what he needed to do as though he'd been given a written list of orders. This time, he did it with his fists, landed blows so fast and hard that he didn't actually feel the impact until his whole right hand flared with cold pain, then flattened to a peculiar numbness, kind of like what had settled over him since Isham died.

When his hand twanged, Johnny started in with his foot, the kick found purchase, shin singing with effort. As soon as he was sure Fancy wasn't getting up again, he picked up his pistol, tucked it into his holster, and turned to find Shorty pointing a gun at him.

The barrel of the gun shivered in the man's grip, then he lowered it, and Johnny was on him. First, he grabbed the kid's gun and slammed it on the table, wanted it out the way so a stray bullet didn't blow an inconvenient hole in him.

Excitement, that's what he told himself, but it wasn't that. He didn't know the name of what this was. Because Johnny had control of the situation now, and he didn't have to do what he did next. But he did it anyway.

He didn't let up until Shorty was grunting in pain, ribs cracked, blood everywhere, his face raw as a barbeque butchering. Johnny's knuckles dripped blood, and he wasn't able to feel much of anything.

The whimpers of the farmer snuck through Johnny's heavy breathing. He reached down to help him up.

Johnny stepped over Shorty and skirted the blood that surrounded Fancy. "I'm gonna take my money, that's all," he huffed out and took his five dollars and the ones, searching around until he found the coins. He nodded to the farmer and the cowboy on his way out, then didn't think about anything for a long while until he found himself standing in front of the motel with a bottle of tequila.

He made his way up the stairs and into the room.

The cool water felt damn good, and since it was the first thing to feel good in some time, Johnny let it run over his hand until the jug gave up the last of it. When it did, he set it down too close to the basin, hoping the tinny clink wouldn't wake Scott.

He was glad there wasn't a mirror in the room, at least he couldn't see his reflection here. His knuckles had stopped bleeding, and he didn't think that he'd actually broken anything. They hurt something awful, though. Should've stuck to guns, handy and lethal and…he stopped himself, did a hard swallow. He'd just beaten two men, no way around it. He sat beside the chipped basin, scrubbed his fingertips through his hair.

From the looks sniped his way since he told his brother about Isham, Johnny knew Scott wondered about it. And so did Johnny really, even though he'd drive himself crazy if he thought about it too long. Like Isham, all he ever wanted was to be good at his trade, take pride. Well, he'd done it. Although the pride felt tarnished a long time before he made it to Lancer. There was always a weight to being Johnny Madrid and it wasn't something he could ignore. He was only alive on account of what he did in the past—the things he did and how well he did them.

Soft snores from across the room caught his attention. His pocket watch read 3:03, which was the middle of the night in any town, and he still had most of the tequila.

He wasn't that man in the backroom poker game—what had happened there was rage, pure and simple. Now it had vanished, and in its wake this awful tiredness. Madrid—like Isham—was gone, this was where the river was going now. With Scott and Murdoch.

Johnny Lancer lifted the bottle in salute. It was gonna be a long ride home tomorrow.

#-#-#-#-#

The sun came in through the shutters, each slit of light illuminating the dead flies on the sill. After various trips together over the last few months, Scott was almost getting used to waking up half the time with Johnny nowhere to be found. The bed beside him was empty, not even turned down. His head hurt from lack of sleep, a pounding desperate ache in no way alleviated by the fact he knew, more or less, where Johnny was. His brother had cut a willing swath through most of the female population from Morro Coyo to Spanish Wells, and now here, just outside of Allenville, home to the Crystal Palace, the Mitchell ranch and not much else.

This hearty set of conquests was not exactly 'nothing new', as Johnny had casually tossed out one morning, when he'd appeared looking not really rested, but sated. Scott knew that Johnny had his moments—and they were legion—but it all pointed to the incident with Warburton.

It hid things, this relentless behavior, but there was no way in God's green earth Scott was going to call Johnny on it. Part of the problem was that Johnny had time on his hands. It had been one week since they'd buried Warburton and said goodbye to Tallie. Johnny wasn't good with free time. Easy enough to recognize now that he knew more about his brother.

If he didn't get breakfast soon, his stomach was going to eat itself, he thought, rubbing his belly. No, not rubbing. Scratching. The clothes on his back were the same ones he'd been wearing yesterday; he hadn't unpacked anything. He shuddered, guessing at the fugitives hitching a ride with his things.

He heaved out a sigh and threw back the blanket.

A wan-looking drummer brushed his elbow as Scott exited the café. Across the road—not even really a road, but it divided the town into halves—stood two barmaids outside the saloon: a frowsy blond and a genteel-looking brunette. He closed his eyes, felt a blast of sun find his face. Nothing to get excited about, the town was calm, and so was Scott, only prodded from his half-asleep itchy reverie when he caught the tail end of jangling spurs.

"Scott, you ready to go?" And that was all Johnny had to say.

Bad news was always heralded by vicious weather wasn't it? Scott looked up and found the sun a lemon-colored ball high in the sky. So he thought that was a good omen, but then he slid his glance to Barranca. Johnny slouched, eyes half closed, hands slack against the pommel, one bandaged because he'd caught it in the Crystal's swinging door.

That was the story he played out anyhow. Did Johnny think he was an imbecile? Scott guessed bar brawl, hoped he was right. Hard not to notice Johnny had wanted out of town before he ate breakfast and short of a yelling match, Scott wasn't going to get anywhere poking that wound. So he'd accepted Johnny's ridiculous story with a grimace and a returned sunny smile.

It was a childish thought, but he wished by the time they reached Lancer the world would have righted itself. Looking at the storms crossing Johnny's face, he didn't hold much hope.

 **Chapter Two**

Ozone was heavy in the air. It tickled the back of Murdoch's neck as more rain threatened. He stopped outside the barn surprised to see Johnny back early from the creek—by himself. And that wasn't normal.

But what about Johnny had been approaching normal this last week? Or since he and Scott had come home from Allenville? Or since saying goodbye to the girl, Tallie? Things hadn't been the same since Johnny had pulled on the façade of Madrid, and had infiltrated the Warburton camp. Murdoch shut down his thoughts right there, just threw them away like a spent rifle into a scabbard. So, no, it wasn't normal that Johnny was sitting on a hay bale staring at the barn ceiling with nothing to prompt it. Murdoch looked up to see if there was anything about the wooden beams that ought to concern him, but nothing was out of the ordinary—except his son.

"Hello," he said, and Johnny raised a hand in wan greeting, but didn't otherwise stir. It was getting close to three o'clock, and Murdoch needed to get to town. "Did you finish at Tio Creek?" He'd left both his sons this morning in the barn, preparing to wage war on bits of flotsam and debris left over from the last big rain. Johnny's trousers were wet to the knees and swatches of mud creased his shirt. Surely these were signs of ranching.

Yet no matter how many chores his son did, he could see Johnny becoming unraveled like Maria's disastrous attempt at mending one of Scott's sweaters. That was what was so upsetting. He set the banking papers on a side bench. It was Friday and he was running out of time, in every sense of the word.

Maybe if he just asked the boy, but he didn't believe, not for a second, that would work. It was too easy and when had anything been remotely easy?

He moved to the shuttered window. Reaching over, he propped open the wooden cover. Johnny recoiled at the light like someone had just lifted up his rock.

"Did the creek get finished today?" he asked again, trying hard not to sound angry.

Johnny rubbed his eyelids with the tips of his fingers. "No." The word was barked out. "Well, almost." He dropped his hands to his lap and looked over at Murdoch blearily. "What answer do you want?"

Murdoch grimaced, determined not to react to the insolence. "I'm going to town, how about riding with me?"

Johnny nodded in agreement, rose from the bale, and smacked the dirt from his shirt. Then his attention landed on the stack of papers Murdoch had brought in, his eyes narrowing. He stood beside the bench, laid one hand on them, then thumbed through them, mouth tight.

"These the receipts for Warburton's cattle?" From bored and sleepy to all thorns, just like that.

Murdoch swallowed and stepped closer. He knew what Johnny was asking, of course. He handed him a letter, made out to the Green River Bank and Trust.

Johnny read it end to end, not a word spoken, then nodded. "So you're going through with it, sending the money for Tallie's schooling." His words had the same sound as a knife being drawn from a hard leather sheath.

"I said I would."

Johnny shrugged like he didn't care, and cast around for a bridle. "Yeah, you did say as much to Warburton, didn't you?" He finally looked at Murdoch, blank as canvas but not nearly as pliable. "I'll take it to the bank. Send the telegrams."

"Listen, Johnny," and Murdoch ended up sighing.

"What? Think I can't handle a bank transaction or sending a letter?"

That was actually the trouble, how Johnny was handling things, particularly himself. "With Sexton Joe and Isham dead, what if part of Warburton's crew is still in town? They would know and it wouldn't be easy for you to handle, right?"

As soon as he said it, Johnny spun away as though he'd been shot from an angle, but not before Murdoch saw his face. Johnny rolled the receipts into a tube and tapped his thigh with it. "Too old to be coddled, Murdoch."

He sounded calm, but Murdoch couldn't see his son's eyes, so he had no idea what was whirring away in there. It was like Johnny had swallowed a match and Murdoch had to watch it burn him from the inside out.

"You can be both, you know."

Johnny did look at him then, eyes hollowed out, weary.t

"You remember this, I'm smart enough to figure out that Madrid is part and parcel. I can't accept he future if I don't accept the past. So whatever happens, you remember that."

Looking away, Johnny blanched.

"I'm hoping you know this, too," Murdoch said, his tone softer now, designed to get some kind of reaction.

Johnny's face screwed up and he tossed the papers back on the bench. "What?"

"I want you, the whole of you." Though it was like stuffing birdseed back into a bag, Murdoch gathered his anger and wasn't surprised that it was so linked together—the anger and the son and the gunfighting—into one hard knot. Part of it, he knew, was guilt for never finding one lone boy in a teeming border town so many years ago.

Johnny stood still, his face utterly calm.

"What happened in Allenville?" Murdoch asked.

At first, Johnny looked puzzled, not understanding what was said, as if Murdoch had suddenly lapsed into another language. Johnny blinked once, and opened his mouth. "What'd you…?" A hint of a smile teased, like he was reaching for a story.

"Your hand was bandaged, your knuckles bruised, after the trip to Mitchell's. As if you'd been in a fight."

"You ask Scott?" Short, to the point. His walls went up fast.

"I haven't and won't, not when you can tell me just as well."

"Well, go ahead, ask me again," Johnny shot back, and Murdoch could see how anger was swirling within his son. It had him frozen up like a hard winter.

"You're out of control, Johnny. You know it. I know it." A clap of thunder punctuated his words and made them seem harsher. Raindrops thunked one after the other against the roof.

Johnny shook his head like it was a joke, like he could somehow let it slide off his back if he shrugged hard enough. He laughed low in his throat. "You don't know what you're talking about."

"I don't? I saw your face when you pulled the trigger against Isham. It was like killing yourself." But his son knew that already.

Johnny turned around, contained, but burning down where he thought Murdoch couldn't see. Like the water that moved so fast across a rock table you couldn't tell it was in motion until it fell from the edge.

"I'm not making excuses for what I did, a week ago or a month ago or years ago, Murdoch."

"And I'm not asking you to. You tell me you were good at gun-fighting, that tells me you accepted it somewhere along the way." He broke away with an explosion of breath. Murdoch could feel his hands tremble. Maybe from the struggle of not giving in to his own anger, but he didn't think so. At one time he underestimated Johnny, and it was a mistake that would never be repeated. "What changed?"

"Murdoch, you don't know what you're asking."

"I have a pretty good idea, I brought you here didn't I? You're working from dawn to dusk, so you don't have to think about it, and that's fine. But you're not taking this on alone."

Almost a flinch, a skittish horse shying away from its shadow.

"What changed?" Johnny's laugh was clipped, bitter. "Everythin', Murdoch. You, Scott, the ranch, just everything. Right around the time we all signed that piece of paper at the lawyer's office. I'm tied." He gave a shrug. "You asked me for an answer the night Isham died—Madrid or Lancer—and I gave it to you. I'm not goin' back now." Johnny glanced up and Murdoch braced himself. "No apologies."

"I don't want any," Murdoch said finally, able to draw out what was there. "But you don't have to choose. Not for me, not for Lancer."

Quiet closed in and they listened to the rain for a moment. "Shouldn't wait too long for town, the road'll be slick," Johnny murmured and Murdoch wondered if that was for his sake, or John's. It occurred to him that maybe it was for Johnny's sake, that he wanted to cut this short. Seeing it all laid out was too much, it needed to be doled out in small doses.

Confronting Johnny with his past was a hard thing for Murdoch to do, but Johnny was looking back into that world, and no good could come of it. His son had made a decision, then and now. Making it was one thing, living with it was another.

"Come on," Murdoch said. "Let's go."

They tacked their horses and trotted away from Lancer, into a fine mist of rain from laden clouds. Johnny looked ahead, not back at the teeming corrals, or bustling house, eyes set to the mountain range in the west, lost in thought, far away for all that Murdoch could have reached out and touched him.

If there was one thing he had learned from the whole Warburton fiasco, it was that he wanted his son—Madrid _and_ Lancer—worse than anything else in the world, because he saw things in Johnny. Saw that he was good and whole and not needing to be fixed. Not at all.

The End

11~12~15


	5. Rhythm and Hues

Warnings: None. This short story follows after the episode "The Escape" and mentions Dan Cassidy, a principle figure from that episode.

Rhythm and Hues

Someone had left a window open and the air coming down the hallway was cool, laden with ozone. Curious, Murdoch ran his hand across the slim brown package waiting on the foyer table. Addressed to his elder son, it had lain there since Frank dropped off the rest of the ranch's mail that afternoon. His fingertip brushed against the return address. _Daniel Cassidy, St. Louis._ His breath hitched. So, the couple had made it back east after all, and in one piece if the box in front of him were any indication. An envelope, tinged grey-brown from whatever muck it had been run through, lay beside the package. The return address was faded, marred by an old water stain, but it wasn't from St. Louis. He picked it up and held it to the light slanting in from the kitchen. It was from New York, sent months ago, before the Cassidy's had left Lancer.

Boot heels clacked on the tiles, interrupting his thoughts. Murdoch glanced at Teresa, momentarily puzzled by her presence. His eyes strayed to the bundle of towels in her arms.

"Gonna rain," she said with a simple shrug and a sunny smile. She jostled the towels to one arm and pointed behind him. "Hey, what's that? Mail already?" She leaned over to inspect the package.

"Daniel Cassidy?" A concentrated frown replaced her smile. "Oh, Murdoch. Why didn't he just leave well enough alone?"

Teresa's question paralleled his own thoughts. Since he didn't have an answer for her, he stared at the package.

"Has Scott seen it yet?" she asked.

A curtain snapped against a wall somewhere and both heads popped up as rolling thunder echoed.

Teresa hugged the towels. "That rain…"

Having been left out of his son's life until a year ago, there was nothing to do about it until Scott came home. Wordlessly, Murdoch dropped the letter on the top of the table then he and Teresa made for the open window.

#-#-#-#-#

Maria rolled her eyes and held out a hand in front her to fend off the two young men bumping each other through the kitchen doorway. "Mi cocina! ¡Pare a la derecha allí! Just stop!" she said, shaking her head and pointing in the direction of their feet.

"Excúsenos por favor, señora." Scott nudged Johnny's elbow. "Your boots, brother, are a mess. And now so is the rug."

"Yeah well, yours aren't any better. And quit tryin' to get on her good side by spouting off Spanish."

Scott's grin was cut short by Maria's scowl. "I think we'd better go outside."

"I'm not going back out there. It's raining and I'm hungry."

Maria frowned. "Juanito…"

He backed up. "Si, si, señora."

Maria advanced and Johnny retreated, until his hand found the doorknob behind his back.

"I've got first claim on the bathhouse anyway. You stay here and try out some more Spanish. You need all the practice you can get." With a slip of smile he was out the door and gone.

Teresa shouted from dining room. "Maria? Murdoch wants to ask you something."

Maria gave one more disapproving frown and shook her head at him. She left the kitchen as Teresa entered, her voice floating back, muttering in rapid-fire Spanish.

"Did you get that?" Teresa giggled.

"I'm doing better; I caught every fourth word that time." He looked up to ceiling in concentration. "Something about sons and kitchens…"

"…and knowing enough to stay out of them with muddy boots." She lifted up a towel and found still-warm tortillas hiding underneath. Snagging one, she tore it in half, nibbling its edge. "You're dripping."

"How about helping me clean this up?"

"How about cleaning it up yourself? There's a rag in the cupboard next to your leg."

"Well that's…charitable."

"Oh, I think it's charitable enough that I did the washing today." She pinned him with a stare. " _All_ of the washing."

His eyebrows rose. "Point taken." He opened the kitchen door wide and stepped out to the veranda, placing a foot into the iron boot jack. It came off after a satisfying tug. The second boot came harder. Balancing himself with one hand against the wall, it finally pulled free.

She leaned back on the counter, eyebrows furrowed. "Scott, something came for you in the mail today."

He hopped over the muddied rug in the doorway and pulled it up. "I wasn't expecting anything," he said, tossing the rug outside, "from Grandfather."

"Better?" he asked.

"Much. You may even get dinner tonight." She offered him a smile and the other half of the tortilla.

"It's not from your grandfather; it's from Daniel Cassidy."

Stopping in mid-chew, he felt his previous good humor disappear with the swallow of bread.

He let her lead him to the foyer. It was hard to tell how long he stood before the small table, his toes curling in his white socks every so often. The normalcy in his world started to slide away, a disturbingly familiar sensation since Dan had shown up at Lancer.

"Scott? It'll be all right, won't it?"

He looked up at the small quiver in her voice. "Yes, Teresa, it will be all right," he said, the words coming out like a promise he really didn't feel.

He tapped lightly on the package. "It will be all right…"

#-#-#-#-#

For a long moment, all that could be heard was the crackle and hiss of the low fire in the hearth. Dinner had been completed in a perfunctory manner, the dinner conversation mundane and quiet for the most part. He'd been aware of Murdoch sending him furtive glances every now and then over the roast beef. Scott sighed and slid the still-wrapped package from his lap to the sofa, inadvertently pushing the empty stained envelope into the seat crevice. His attention was drawn to the window and the smattering of raindrops across its pane. The rain would be moving off soon.

"Scott?"

His father's voice intruded upon his thoughts. He blinked and realized he still held the letter in his hand.

Murdoch nodded towards the sofa. "That package is a surprise."

"Yes, it is." Scott touched its edge briefly. "But Dan was always a man of his word, if nothing else." He got up to stand by the hearth and looked into the flames for a moment.

"Including this, after a fashion." He turned and waved the letter in the air.

"Dan sent that, too?" asked Murdoch.

"He said he sent other letters out, not only to Lewis and Hardy. But this didn't come from Dan. It's from Joshua Miller—Captain Joshua Miller."

Scott turned to the firelight and read.

" _I regret to inform you that Lt Daniel Cassidy has written me a letter outlining a betrayal... I'm writing you in hopes of preventing what surely would be a travesty for all concerned…"_

"Cassidy's visit could have been prevented, if it had arrived in time," Murdoch murmured.

"Or better prepared for perhaps," Scott said. "No matter now." He dropped the letter on the sofa cushion.

"And that package?" asked Murdoch.

Scott picked it up. "It's…difficult. I don't need to be reminded of what happened—I was there. Some days it seems like so long ago that it really doesn't signify anymore…Dan, Libby…the Company."

"But you can't forget."

"No."

How could he? He'd left friends behind and a promise to them—broken. Perhaps they'd been foolish to make the promise to each other, but it had held them together over the rough spots—the long marches, the interminable waiting, the skirmishes and for the few who survived the battles, even the long internment.

Murdoch came to stand beside him, reaching out to clasp his shoulder in a solid grip. He leaned into the warmth of his father's hand.

"No one is asking you to forget them, Scott," Murdoch said. "You do the best you can with what you have, it's all anyone can ask of a good man."

This was something he understood. Nodding, he lapsed into silence, looking into the fire.

Murdoch moved off to the sideboard. The glass decanters clinked against each other when his father jostled them. Scott soon felt a nudge on his shoulder. A glass of whiskey was being offered, another was in Murdoch's hand.

"To memories, good and bad," Murdoch said, tipping his glass upwards.

They both turned at the sound of laughter, Johnny's rolling chuckle and Teresa's higher pitched one, and watched as the pair careened into the great room together. As one, Johnny and Teresa stopped just inside the entryway, sensing the mood within.

Scott looked thoughtfully into his glass, then slowly raised it to meet his father's. "But mostly the good."

His eyes flicked to the window. "It looks like the rain has finally stopped," he held his drink up, "so I think I'll finish this outside." He captured his father's steel-blue eyes. "Thank-you."

#-#-#

Murdoch watched him leave quietly out the French doors. The edge of an envelope poked out from its hiding place behind the sofa cushion, drawing his eye. Reaching for it, his hand brushed against the letter left behind by his son. An underlined phrase written in heavy scrawl stood out from the rest of the written page and he smoothed out the paper, reading what Scott had purposely left out before.

"… _for your honor, Lieutenant Lancer,_ _has never been in question_ _, not by me nor by those men who gallantly served with you."_

He re-read it then carefully folded the letter into the envelope and placed it upright beside the lamp base.

#-#-#-#-#

Leaving the warmth of the great room behind, Scott escaped to the back portico with the drink in one hand and the box in the other. Holding it loosely, he studied its wrapper. The plain brown paper didn't reveal any of its secrets, but he knew what lay inside. Admittedly, he was leery of seeing it again. He set the box down and took up his drink, slouching into the chair.

The door slid open on a whisper. However, the tread was too light for his father—Johnny then. His brother swung into the opposite chair, one hand clutching a mass of sunflower seeds.

"Gonna open it, Scott?"

"I was thinking about it." He looked instead to the corral and saw the sorrel Johnny had been working with the past few days. It had been caught in some fencing, its foreleg cut to the tendon.

"It looks like he's going to be all right after all," Scott said, watching the animal walk.

Johnny popped a shell into his mouth and spoke around it, "A little time, a little care and understanding, it'll all work out-or most things will."

"So a little time and care, is that all brother?"

"Just about."

Scott looked out past the barn and corral to the hills of Lancer. "Johnny…when was your best?"

"Best what?"

He gestured to the pale pink and yellow ribbons of color edging into the horizon.

"My best sunset?"

Scott nodded.

Johnny cracked a sunflower seed between his teeth, spitting the shells out, while he thought. "I've had a few here and there. But there was a time after Pardee when I was still laid up, the house was settled for the evening and Murdoch had just left the room. I got up and opened the windows, craned my neck to see outside. It was special just seein' it—from my own bedroom—you know?"

Johnny grinned. "Saw more'n a few sunsets back then that way."

"You weren't fooling anyone, you know. Murdoch was wondering how you didn't add a broken neck to the bullet wound in your back."

Johnny barked out an appreciative laugh, and split another shell.

Scott took the package in both hands and slipped a finger under the binding, the paper coming off easily. He peeled back the flaps. And there it was, nestled at the bottom. A picture of the 83rd, as it was in all of its glory. Just as Dan had promised.

Johnny leaned over and let out a low whistle. "Well, look at that."

Scott could feel his brother studying him, waiting for the right moment.

"Your turn, Scott," Johnny said, sitting back into his chair. "When was your best sunset?"

He exhaled. "My best sunset came on the day this picture was taken." His voice dipped lower. "You know, when we were together, nothing could overcome us. It was for duty and a promise we'd made to each other."

He traced the pad of his thumb over the figures. "We knew our place in the world and found it to our liking. Our battle rhythm had begun." He placed the picture back in the box and shrugged. "But things had a way of changing."

Scott twirled his etched glass and watched the ebbing sunlight grab and catch at the whiskey. When was the last time he and Dan had shared a drink—or a sunset?

It was an evening similar to this, with welcome coolness brushing against his skin. The sunset was brilliant, even Captain Miller—a man not given to overtures of sentimentality—had remarked on it. The drink came later that night in the back of a tent. After weeks spent slogging through muggy Virginia air and red mud, they had bivouacked on the banks of the river and been commanded to wait. But Grant had finally requested them, the Captain said, the orders had been sent. So they'd raised their tin cups in a toast to the Company and all of its fine citizens. Little did they realize it would be the last drink they'd have together. It would also be their last sunset for the next long year.

He turned back to the picture and gazed at the rows of young men, their solemn faces giving a false impression—they'd never been that gloomy in real life. Spencer, O'Riley, Thomas, Morris, Huelsman…he could name them all. The good men of the 83rd.

It was time to start celebrating their lives instead of mourning their deaths. Past time, actually.

"Johnny," he said, pointing his finger at whiskered man, kepi slanted at a jaunty angle, "this was Sergeant Spencer. He was our quartermaster and the best one a soldier could ever hope for…"

~The End~

Mar~'09/Edited: Dec~'15


	6. A Rose by Any Other Name

Warnings: None

A Rose by Any Other Name

"What brings you all the way out to Lancer, Mr. Randolph?"

The lawyer pulled a long sheet of white paper from his carryall. "Murdoch, I can't process this document, it's not legal or binding because of the name."

Murdoch's eyebrows came together. "Did Johnny…?" He looked quickly at his son then back again. "I thought he told you to let it stand."

"It's not him that's the issue." Randolph pointed to Scott. "It's him. See here?"

Murdoch looked down at the hardly legible signature and winced. "Oh, yes. I don't know how that escaped my attention."

"Well, don't you see? It has to be fixed if this document is to be considered binding. Otherwise, it's just a fancy piece of paper taking up room on my desk."

Murdoch brought a shoulder up. "Scott? It'll have to be changed." The shoulder came down when his son's lips thinned out to a determined straight line.

"I'm asking, son."

That brought the boy forward.

Scott grabbed the pen and stabbed it in the ink a few times, flicking off the excess with so much force a spot landed on Mr. Randolph's vest. As it mingled with the others found there, the lawyer waved it off and waited.

Murdoch held his breath as the pen passed by the 'Scott' and hovered for a few seconds over the 'Garrett' before finally slashing through that name and scribbling in the legal one.

Johnny edged over and looked at what was written, huffing out a laugh, until he caught Scott's dark look.

Randolph beamed and clapped his hands. "There, all tied up nice and legal. I'll process this and get it back to you by the beginning of next week."

As they watched the lawyer take his leave, Murdoch clapped Scott on the shoulder. "I'm sorry. Your mother…well, she always had a quirky sense of humor. And a keen sense of family. Ah, despite your grandfather."

"That's all well and good, Murdoch, but you're not the one who has to live with it. Do you know how long it took me to learn all those letters when I was a child? Where on earth did she ever conceive of Scott Maoldòmhnaich Lancer?"

Murdoch pinked. Maoldòmhnaich was his Da's middle name, and his elder brother's first name, too. Thank God he wasn't first-born.

The End

~2015

 _(FYI: Maoldòmhnaich means servant of Sunday. Ludovic would the Anglicization_ _of the name.)_


	7. Belonging

Warnings: None. This is a pre-Lancer story.

Belonging

Johnny Madrid drew back against the corral, eyeing the flashy sorrel, El Gato. For the better part of twenty minutes, he watched the way the horse danced, how the muscles rippled at the shoulder and haunch with every step. The first day in town he'd gone to the corral exactly four times—the pull of the Sonora rodeo and its doings proving too good to miss.

Hair past his collar, boots with run-down heels, faded work pants and a patched cotton shirt made Johnny a distinct contrast to the immaculate reds, yellows and browns of the rodeo vaqueros, but the differences didn't end there.

They were cocks of the walk. They looked it, acted it, and wanted it known. They were heroes of the rodeo and Johnny was an unknown. Although with his pistol strapped low when he wasn't working—low enough to make most folks uncomfortable—he was getting known a little, too. And now he had a dollar to his name and a job handling stock for the rodeo.

Manuel Mora and his girl halted by the corral and peered through the horizontal bars to watch the milling horses.

"El Gato is plenty of horse, isn't he?"

Johnny leaned against the wooden slats of the coral, and lied. "Not really."

Dislike flashed across Mora's face. He was used to being yessed by the help. He nudged the girl. "I suppose you could ride him, boy?"

Johnny bristled. He disliked being called 'boy'. He was seventeen, already a few rough years behind him.

"I could. He's easy compared to Abogado." Johnny nodded to a lean-faced grulla that stood alone at the far wall. "Abogado would pitch circles around him."

"Just for fun," Mora said, "and since you're such a good rider, I'll bet you ten dollars you can't stay up on El Gato."

"I can ride him."

"Then put your money in the hat, mestizo!"

Johnny could feel the heat rush to his face. "I said I could ride' im." But he glanced to the left and right, looking for an escape.

"Come on! Put up your money! Let's see you do it."

Several people had gathered around, and among them was a tall gringo.

The girl started to pull on Mora's elbow. "Maybe he doesn't want to ride, Manuel. Let him go."

The bystanders started to make noise behind them and she pulled harder. Mora's hard face softened, but kept his eyes on Johnny. "For you, Margarita." He turned and dropped a peso at Johnny's feet.

The crowd and its laughter drifted away and Johnny kicked the peso across the corral, head down. He'd been made to look like fool. But how could he admit he didn't have the ten dollars? Or even five?

"You think that horse can buck?" The voice behind him was deep, friendly.

"You can bet on it."

"Have you seen him do it?" It was the tall gringo, brown face seamed and wind worn under greying hair.

Johnny hesitated. "Not exactly."

"But you know horses."

"That's right."

"I see. Been around long?"

"A few days," Johnny admitted. "Why all the questions?"

The man shrugged. "I was looking for Señor Jaime Abana. He has a stallion I'm looking to buy. Thought you would know where he is."

"I never met' im. Just got to town and talked the saddler into a job feeding and watering the stock."

"Have you got any money?"

Johnny's head came up, could feel his eyes narrow. "That ain't any of your business."

The gringo chuckled. "If you had money, I guess you wouldn't be so upset about it. Thought you might need a few dollars to tide you over until payday."

Johnny studied him then dropped his eyes. He palmed his empty hip. "What do you want me to do for these dollars?"

The man waved his hand towards El Gato. "Put a saddle on him and I'll pay you to ride."

"How much?"

"Oh, say ten dollars?"

"Why do you want to see me ride him?"

"I think the only reason you didn't get up on that horse a few minutes ago is because you didn't have the money." The gringo smiled, all white and gleaming. "I just want to see if I'm right."

"Old man, you're too much. Where's the money?"

He gave an indulgent smile. "In my pocket. You ride, I'll pay."

Without another word, Johnny went off to the barn.

He came back trailing a saddle grasped by the horn, and a halter over one shoulder. With the help of the old man, he saddled and haltered the sorrel. The arena was empty at the early afternoon hour and Johnny clambered between the bars of the chute to mount the horse. He dropped into the saddle and grabbed the lead rope, nodding to the old man.

El Gato made a desperate run for the side of the corral, skidded to a halt and threw down his head. When Johnny stayed in the saddle, he hip-hopped front to back, finally sunfishing for a full four seconds.

The gringo yelled time, and Johnny unloaded. Together they caught up the sorrel and unsaddled him.

Breathing hard, he ran his fingers across the saddle leather, once, twice. "They might raise a fuss if they knew I rode that horse."

"I wouldn't be too worried. I know the owner of the rodeo." The old man dug into his pocket. "Here's your ten dollars. You handled the horse well."

"Gracias." Johnny grinned. He gripped the money in one hand so hard his knuckles turned pale.

"Ever figure on riding for a ranch?"

Johnny looked up, hesitated, then shook his head. "Not for me, mister. I'd better go, I've got a lot of work to do before the fandango tomorrow and I want to get into town for a little bit!"

He was going to say adios to the old man and thanks again for the money—although it was a sucker's bet, with Johnny holding all the cards. But he didn't say anything. Mostly because the gringo was standing in the corral, staring at him. Face milk white. Eyes plate big, and he didn't say a word.

Johnny couldn't stop the shiver down his back.

He shoved the crumpled bills into his pocket and edged around the chute. He backed away three steps, then turned and jogged towards the barn.

#####

Johnny wore his new shirt, wiped his sweaty palm on new trousers, and after a good meal of beef and fried potatoes, still had three dollars leftover from the gringo's money. Eventually, he loped into the saloon and hoped that Elena wasn't working, because he didn't want to disappoint her and didn't want to get talked out of the inevitable. He hadn't come for a free bowl of gristly stew tonight. So he thought about the wad of cash in Tate Richards's hand, a hundred dollars, maybe more, and how carelessly he peeled the bills away, one after the other. Richards was King of the saloon, called his own shots, not answering to anyone. Somewhere in Johnny's gut, he knew those were all lies. But he couldn't wait anymore, so he pushed open the door to the Alhambra.

Richards leaned over the faded green felt, his rings of polished agate catching the lantern light to send flickers of yellow against the plywood wall of the saloon. With one bent finger, he showed Johnny where he should take his next shot. Johnny wasn't in the habit of taking pointers about his pool game, but this was different. Richards noticed Johnny's uncommon acceptance of advice and pulled a quicksilver grin over his craggy face.

The pool table was tucked away to the side of the bar, like an afterthought, shimmed with scraps of wood so it was level. The two of them circled it. He turned the cue over in his hands, intent on not letting Richards get a shot in, and made the King watch as he cleared the table. Every day since coming to town, and this was only the second time he'd skunked the wily Richards.

They weren't playing for money. Richards reached into the braided leather pockets, fetched out the balls. They clacked as he arranged them on the felt.

"You know, I like you, Johnny. We're the same underneath it all, you and me," Richards said, adjusting the triangle of colored balls just so.

Johnny swallowed, mouth dry as dust. "Yeah? You like me so much, how come you haven't offered me a job?" Five days of Richards's schooling and now Johnny gave it back, signaling class was over. They were dancing and both knew it.

"I'll tell you why, but you're not gonna like it." He looked mournful for a moment, those bottomless brown eyes almost kind.

"You got belonging written all over you. You're a pup, not a big dog. And I'm of a mind to only hire big dogs."

Johnny watched as Richards placed the white ball, drew back and made the break with a crack like an oncoming spring storm.

"I don't belong to anyone, just myself. And I'm looking to hire on."

Richards shook his broad hands free of cue dust. "Is that so?" His expression changed—mercurial—and there was that grin again. "There may be hope for you yet."

#####

On the short ride to the rodeo grounds the next morning, only one thing bubbled to the surface. He was _safe_. Murdoch's mind snagged on that particular word. His head rang, but he wasn't going to think of the past. After the boy—Johnny, he reminded himself, not some random child, but one with a name, one who mattered—had left, he'd gone to the rodeo office and learned from Abana that Johnny indeed had been hired by the saddler as a roustabout. Taken on a trial basis because there'd been enough trouble to earn Johnny somewhat of a reputation.

"Lo siento," Jaime had murmured. "You didn't need to hear about all that. God only knows this is a tough town."

But now something was happening at the corral beside the arena. Jaime and another man were arguing, all waved arms and reddened faces. Murdoch and Paul fell into a loaded silence, and pulled up well short of the action. Murdoch pushed his way through the vaqueros, horses and rodeo spectators, going toward the sound of shouting.

Jaime turned, his face serious. "He's gone," were the first words out of his mouth and the only ones needed.

Not a yard from the tip of Murdoch's nose, a whoosh of air and color flexed inward and outward. He stumbled back, startled, mind not quick enough to comprehend what was being said. Then it caught up. It was his heart that didn't. He couldn't draw breath.

"You didn't tell him?" Paul asked in a question, yet not a question. Murdoch's eyebrows lifted, pinned his foreman where he stood, mouth gaping. What part of not recognizing his own son until too late was all right to say aloud?

The arena with its southern mid-morning sun was like an anvil, a skimpy breeze not making a dent in the furnace. All the blood rushed to his face, leaving him flushed and shaking.

And suddenly he wanted to feel again, needed to hear her voice, and it was so far away, all of it. He wanted it back. He wanted her, he wanted his son.

He was no good at being alone.

He committed to memory the way Johnny moved, how he stood. Murdoch gulped air remembering the threadbare shirt, the faded jeans held up with a bit of leather, all the while watching the slow pan of horses and people in the arena, listening to the damn fiddle music playing on and on.

Better that he stay angry for a while—it would help. Anger was better than despair. It was the only thing that let him keep going, building the legacy.

Lost, he looked down, could feel Paul stare at him, waiting for orders. Well, he'd give them, damn it. They'd tear Sonora apart if they had to because if he found Johnny once, he could find him again.

The End

8~23~2014, edited 12~'15


	8. Answering the Call

Warnings: None. Pre-Lancer. My thanks to Judi S. for the prompt back in 2012 when this was first written, hopefully she is still in fandom, happy and healthy.

Answering the Call

Scott Lancer wanted a drink. He wasn't particular about the type. The seductive warmth of champagne, or whiskey that would burn a line down his throat. But he wasn't going to get one until he went inside. After spending a pair of hours walking the streets, an inky daylight had come after all, bringing with it storm clouds off the sea. A harbinger of sorts? Having a drink, possibly many, sounded like just the thing to do.

He fumbled with the key against the metal plate, only slightly surprised when the door whisked opened from the inside. Skimmerhorn had been a fixture at the Tremont Street house for as long as he could remember. A good man, and an early riser, thank the heavens. Scott looked to the staircase, followed its thick, curved banister upwards. "Has my grandfather left for the day yet?"

"He's late this morning." Skimmerhorn shook his head with a long-suffering sigh. "You should send word when you'll be detained."

Scott accepted the admonishment as his due.

Peering up through the wire spectacles perched at the end of his nose, Skimmerhorn had the intense scrutiny of a terrier after a tender morsel. "What's wrong Master Scott?"

He patted the missive in his pocket with more exuberance than he felt. "I've heard from my father."

"The one in California?"

"Hopefully there's only one. Apparently he resides in a place called the San Joaquin Valley."

"Well, I never…"

"That makes two of us." He shrugged out his cape and jacket, leaving them with Skimmerhorn who stood in the foyer, mouth agape. The news would be whispered throughout the staff by nine o'clock, at the latest.

His booted feet felt heavy against the hallway carpet, and not just from the exercise along Canal Street. Everything had a new weight. Up until tonight, things had felt…light. Almost weightless in fact. Rote.

His grandfather's study smelled cozy. Like musty tobacco and cologne. A well-mannered fire played in the hearth to ward off the morning chill, its flames shadowing his grandfather's downed black queen at the chess board. He was surprised that he suddenly felt so at ease. But this room always had that effect. He had sat by the study's window in the earliest stages of recovery after his release from the regimental hospital, swathed in blankets and foisted with willow bark tea—Skimmerhorn's doing—reading a favored Thoreau while Grandfather puzzled over the days events, strategizing for tomorrow. Here, he had known safety again, a measure of happiness.

Scott couldn't say why he was doing it. He had no business meeting Murdoch Lancer. He was perfectly content where he was, what he was doing. Eventually he would give up the gaming halls, even Barbara's boudoir if it came down to it, would set his mind to task.

And that was it, the real reason. For the last six months—and why did it seem so difficult lately?—he'd been crossing a battlefield, waiting for the click of a rifle behind his back. Hoping, in fact, for the sound. The rest of life yawned before him like so much unwanted space. He stumbled in the shadows now, listening to it settle, readjusting itself without much effort on his part.

And yes, he was angry. Not exactly at Murdoch Lancer – but yes, at him.

He stared into the fire. In evening clothes he looked the part of Harlan Garrett's grandson, heir to Garrett Enterprises. Only in his eyes, when he caught his reflection in the flicker of flames against the brass plate, did he see the other paths he'd chosen, the internal struggle afterward to find his true place.

He sat in the miserably uncomfortable Louis XIV side chair beside the massive mahogany desk and reached for the brandy. Looking up, he lifted his full snifter to the portrait of the young woman in green damask above the mantel.

"So early, Scotty? Or is it late?"

Harlan was in the doorway. Sharp New England cheekbones were still ruddy from his pillow. Canny eyes missed very little as they flicked over him, head to toe. His lips, though, curved downwards. Distaste.

"Grandfather." And because it was expected, Scott stood.

"Pour me a drink," he ordered, in a voice that carried more than a hint of Boston society. "That will give you time to tell me what you're doing."

"We may need more than that." But he turned to the decanter.

He remembered when Harlan had caught him filching from the same decanter nearly fifteen years ago. How he had insisted that Scott drink the brandy—and keep drinking while he watched, steely-eyed. And after, when he'd been horribly sick, his grandfather stood beside the bed, directing Skimmerhorn to make buttered toast. _When you're old enough to drink like a man, Scotty, we will share civilized libations. Until then don't take what you cannot handle._

Jacket rustling, Harlan sat near the fire, accepted the crystal glass of brandy and swirled it in hand. "When are we going to discuss what's going on in your life?"

Scott shifted in his chair to face him, hesitated for the briefest of moments. "A Pinkerton agent stopped me tonight. He had a message…from my father."

Harlan listened to the rest without interruptions. He sipped from the glass, his reaction showing only in the darkening of his eyes, the thinning of his mouth. There was temper, but also breeding.

And there, Scott thought, was where he had inherited his control.

"You disappoint me, Scotty."

A phrase he rarely used, it had more bite than a dozen recriminations from a company commander.

"And I think you'll disappoint yourself. Going to that wilderness." He set his glass down and studied it. "This is a major decision in your life."

"You make it sound as though I was keeping this from you."

"Your life," he repeated with stinging emphasis. "Why should you bother to tell me?"

Scott sat silently for several heartbeats and watched the distance grow between them by leaps and bounds. "I hoped you would understand."

"You've been making your own choices for a long time. School. Enlisting in the Army. At least the former risked no more than a modification of political views," he settled back in his chair, "rather than your life."

He barely resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Such an old bone, circa 1863, put upon the shelf in order to be taken down and chewed thoroughly when the situation arose.

Harlan lifted his eyebrows, pushing them together in one bushy grey line. "You'll walk out on everything I made for you here?"

"I'm not walking out." He struggled for calm. "He asked me to come, Grandfather."

There was that time when Private Tommy Harkens had fallen off his cavalry mount, a horse borrowed from another company. It had been tall at seventeen hands, and roughly broke. Tommy couldn't work the reins properly, and it all ended badly. The horse startled and broke the line, Scott moved forward but it seemed as if he was going in slow motion. Tommy had been tossed, sailing over the animal's neck into an ancient wagon. Scott hadn't made it halfway down the slope before Tommy was curled in a tight ball beside the wreckage.

That sensation, of one thing moving fast and the other very slow, was enough to make him ill. Right now, his own thoughts, his sense of what was right, what he should do, was moving too fast. And Grandfather? This time, Harlan was the one moving slow.

"It's wrong, Scotty," Harlan murmured. "Everybody needs something, even Murdoch Lancer." He shook his head. "A thousand dollars. You have a fluid sense of compassion for a man who gave you away and is now trying to buy you back again."

Scott hooked his drink off the desk, avoided his grandfather's look and strode to the window, his eyes flitting from wet cobblestones to rain-soaked carriages. Well used to Harlan's machinations, verbal sparring was a game best played at night with cigars and full glasses, but this was beneath even Grandfather's particular methods of persuasion. Perhaps it jangled a nerve so brutally because, at least in part, there was some truth to the statement.

Embers of an old anger flamed. "This is my decision."

"Yes, it's yours," he agreed. "But it's the wrong one."

He wanted to hit something. The feeling came over him all too often. And because of it, he took a measure of solace in drink, and Barbara. And before her, Julie. Something backed up in his throat. Guilt was as bitter as bile.

"Give yourself more time before you do anything irreversible." Harlan's voice became soft. "It's been months since we took an adventure. Spring is here, my boy, time to open up the country house."

"I appreciate the invitation, Sir, but I have plans. I'm packing and making train reservations."

"Train reservations." Harlan's words were ripe with annoyance. "Really, Scotty, there's no need for that nonsense. The firm has more than enough duties for you, or immerse yourself in your books. Buy another horse, if you must, but don't bury yourself in that miserable place out west. It killed your mother; I won't have it do the same to you."

He was surprised he could still smile. "They say the sun shines in California, almost the entire year around. That doesn't sound miserable."

"I don't want to see you turn your life upside-down, for the wrong reasons."

He slouched back to glance towards his grandfather. "And my father is part of those reasons?"

Harlan rose from his chair. He looked like what he was, a successful businessman on his way to the office. But his eyes, as blue as his own, were filled with something akin to concern.

"I have had reservations these past few years, you seemed so restless. And for a while, it appeared you'd made the right choices. Including the Dennison girl. But this time your solution is to leave, throw it away for someone you've never met."

"Yes." He couldn't break through the wall that was thrown up between them, but the old man's hurt could. It snuck through the cracks and battered him. "What do you want Grandfather?"

"You. To stay where you rightfully belong."

"I can't do that."

"Can't or won't?" Harlan sighed, sounding defeated. "I only want what is best for you—home."

Scott considered the road outside the window, you stayed on it long enough and reached the Commons, a good canter north and Grandfather's firm appeared at the corner of Third and Benson. You reached _someplace_. He blew out a breath. "You always did, Sir."

The period after he came back from the war had simply blurred from one image into the next. Had set him on a trajectory as sure as the clouds brought rain, but he hadn't seen this coming—not California. Yet it seemed the right step to take. He'd always kept an eye to the future, another of those inherited Garrett traits, but now it was a bit more frightening.

He wondered if his father ever got frightened, and Scott thought that after all this time, he'd earned the right to ask.

The End

Mar~'12 re-edited Dec~'15


	9. Cold Sweat

Warnings: None, except it's pretty clear I don't do romance very well. :D This is from 2009.

Cold Sweat: In Three Acts

 **Act I: The Introductions**

A violent lurch caused her to drop the leather curtain at the window, and she bounced down the length of the seat, coming to an effective stop against the rather large Mr. Johansson. She apologized profusely for the intrusion and he grinned at her, showing several black spots where teeth should have been. He peered at the top of her head, his smile widening. Her hand followed his line of vision and found her small hat listing to the right. Jerking it straight, she stabbed it with a pin then nodded to the man with as bright a smile as she could muster and scooted back to her rightful perch by the opposite window of the stagecoach.

Tess O'Sullivan was thin, petite and, at least in her aunt's eyes, considered pretty. But most of all she was terribly excited. She ran a hand down the skirt of her traveling gown, smoothing out the new wrinkles, and sighed. It was her best one-now horribly out of fashion-but still serviceable. She wondered how many times it could be mended before it would start to look like the patchwork quilt Aunt Vi was working on.

She looked across the interior to Aunt Viola, still firmly ensconced between two large hatboxes and the rest of their luggage. The elderly woman hadn't moved one iota and was, in fact, snoring a bit louder than before. She gazed fondly at the figure on the seat across from her, watching as the small spectacles Aunt Vi wore took a few more slides down the length of her nose.

A sudden shout was heard and the stagecoach cannonballed to a stop, flinging her to the side, the hat boxes to the floor, and Aunt Viola onto the lap of an astonished Mr. Johansson. After much chatter outside, the door to the coach flung open and she was unceremoniously dumped out, and into the arms of a tall, young man.

He looked down at her and swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down the length of his throat. He swallowed a second time and managed to clear his throat.

"Why hello, Miss," he said, his accent smooth with an unexpected Eastern flair.

She stared at him, wide-eyed and dumbfounded, absently patting his chest. He smelled good- like the outside-a tangy pine molded to a man's scent. His head was bent, watching her hand rat-a-tat-tat for a bit near his open collar then tilted his face towards her, eyebrows raised. She felt herself suddenly lifted a bit higher when he hunched his shoulders.

"May I put you down?" he asked.

Her lips drew closed and one quick hand went to brush back a strand of dark hair clinging to her neck. "Yes…it's all right."

Alarm overcame curiosity and she squirmed in his arms, her face warming as she fought against the two strong hands holding tight to her thighs and back.

He slid her down to the ground, then side-stepped away, being careful not to trod on her fluff of a hat, lying in the dirt with its feather askew. He had just enough time to pick it up before the driver placed a hand to his back and propelled him forward, bumping into her.

"Mount up, Mister," the driver looked to her and nodded, "you too, Miss. It's a ways to Morro Coyo and I got a schedule to keep."

Sprawled in the seat as he was, the sheer length of him took up space-both his own and that of Mr. Johansson. She wondered who he was, a rancher perhaps? The bandage wrapped around his hand looked hastily done and dirty, much like the rest of him. Cowhand was more like it, she decided. Hadn't she been raised with enough of them to know?

And just like that, with luggage re-arranged and passengers finally secured, the coach took off with a whip crack and lunge.

The cowboy slumped further into the spare cushion of his seat, enduring the stares of his riding companions in silence. He straightened his dust-covered legs and stretched them out in front of him, almost sighing with relief. Presently he nodded to the solid-looking gentleman sitting across the way, who watched him intently. The drummer extended out sausage-like fingers in a handshake.

"How do. Name's Johansson, Eric Johansson. Dry goods is my game."

He offered his left hand, the right being tightly swathed in a bandana. "Scott Lancer." After a few moments of hesitation, he added with a slight shrug, "Rancher."

Mr. Johansson motioned to his hand. "Had some trouble it looks like."

"Some," he conceded and started to pull on the brim of his hat. Aunt Vi, her hand enveloped in dainty lace, tapped on his leg before he was able to get it half-way down.

"Thank you, Mr. Lancer, for catching her."

Tess felt the color rise in her cheeks.

His lips twitched.

"I am Mrs. Viola Bidwell and it's not everyday you find such a handsome young man out in the middle of nowhere willing to help."

Tess inhaled sharply, hissing out a barely audible reproach.

He gave her a long gaze that ended in the sunshine of a smile.

The lace was back at work, tip-tapping on his thigh. Aunt Viola's thin, watery voice trembled then gained in octave. "Allow me to present my niece, Miss O'Sullivan, with whom you are, ah, already acquainted."

He thrust out his hand awkwardly, like a green boy at his first dance. A flush rose past his collar when she gazed at the bloodied appendage with something akin to horror. Catching her eyes in the stare, they both turned away. He yanked his hat down and settled back into the cushion, bracing his boots against the bench in front of him. Silence reigned and after a time, his head dipped towards his chest, nodding with the sway of the rolling coach.

 **Act II: The Wooing**

"Miss?"

Tess gripped the ladder. His voice, with its rich timbre, reminded her of someone. Twisting to see who had come into the store, she caught the edge of her dress under foot on the rung and slipped.

Capable arms caught her, the list he'd been gripping fluttered to the floor, forgotten.

Tess looked up into his eyes, so full of light and dark shades. "Mr...Lancer?" She took a tentative sniff, this time the scent of sweat and man-not unpleasant-flooded her nostrils.

He smiled at her. "Miss O'Sullivan."

A voice thundered from the doorway. "Tess! What's goin' on here?"

He startled, threatening to drop the bundle in his arms, but she was already slipping down.

Tess patted her hair back into place. "Why, Uncle! Nothing is going on here. Mr. Lancer came to my rescue. I fell off the ladder and he caught me."

"Lancer, huh? You one of Murdoch's boys?"

He nodded.

"Which one?" A curious look of hopefulness came into the old man's eyes.

"I'm Scott Lancer."

The anticipation died, to be replaced with a look of disdain. "The one from back east, huh?"

"From Boston, Sir."

"Well, I suppose you gotta be from somewhere." Bidwell turned away to thrust a scrap of paper at his niece. "Viola says she needs these things. I'll pick 'em up on my way out of town." He looked him up and down, shaking his head and walked out the door.

The store fell quiet.

"That was Charles Bidwell, my uncle," she said, her voice flat. "I'm sorry."

He shrugged and gestured around him. "This is…"

"My store," she finished proudly. "When my father died last year, Aunt Viola and Uncle Charles asked that I come here to stay. I'm their only niece, you see. I told them I wouldn't come to live for free."

She swept her arm around. "So this is mine-and my Uncle's," she added with a wink.

His gaze started in speculation and ended with hope. "Will you be coming to the dance tonight?" he asked, without pretense. "Unless there's someone else."

"He doesn't happen to exist," she said archly.

Scott smiled broadly. "Will you do me the honor?"

"It wouldn't be entirely disagreeable to me." She glanced away after giving him what she hoped was a mischievous look, but he responded differently than what she expected.

"Until tonight. Good-bye Miss O'Sullivan." His tone was quite serious, blue eyes alight. The he turned to leave.

#-#

Waltzes and square dances were on the program at Morro Coyo's town hall. Tess's first partner was Tim Walker. The young man stumbled through the dance but that didn't spoil it for her. Her second partner was a friend of her Uncle's, an older rancher, very attentive and pleasant.

It was after the second dance had finished, when she saw him. She felt herself shiver. He wore black trousers with a white shirt and looked so tall and slim standing next to two other gentlemen. His eyes, dark with excitement, swept the hall. Tess knew they were searching for her. She had never wanted anything so badly as for him to see her now.

Aunt Vi's hand pressed against her lower back, her tremulous voice whispering in her ear, "Go on, dear. I don't think he'll bite."

He was noticed by several girls, gaily tittering behind their hands. The meaning of those feminine glances sent his way was not lost on her. She dared to glance over again, only to find him watching her.

His quick smile and slight bow came unexpectedly. What would he do?

The musicians were picking up their instruments again as he threaded his way across the crowded floor.

"May I?"

"Yes," she murmured.

Scott spun them out to the dance floor as the music burst forth. She was oblivious to all except his arm around her and the lightness of his step.

He pressed her hand. "I'd thought you might have forgotten me."

"Never," returned Tess.

He stared somberly down at her and she felt her face burning. The top of her head came up just shy of his shoulder so there was no chance of hiding it there.

They didn't seem to be making any effort at all yet they were gliding and swaying among the other dancers, whose names she suddenly couldn't remember. The music ceased just as they passed the open door.

"Come," he said. "Let's get out before someone else asks you to dance."

He led her out onto the moonlit porch, full of shadowy places, finding a spot for them to stand overlooking a large expanse of garden.

"You look lovely tonight."

He had her almost leaning on his shoulder now, looking like a school boy caught cheating.

"You don't know me…," he began softly.

She stood on tip-toe and pressed her finger against his lips. He had her in his arms then, tight against his breast. As his head lowered, Tess closed her eyes and held on.

 **Act III: The Asking**

"It's a little late, ain't it?"

Scott whirled around in the shadowed kitchen to meet the casual drawl, nearly dropping his coat and tie in the process.

"Or is it early?" A soft snicker accompanied Johnny's voice.

"Waiting up for me, brother?"

A snort came from across the table. "I just came down to get something to eat."

"Sounds good, is there any left?"

"I thought you took Bidwell's niece out to dinner again."

And so he had. Miss Tess O'Sullivan-her lips had tasted of cinnamon tonight.

"Didn't get around to much eatin', huh?"

Scott stared at his brother and sat down.

Johnny leaned forward on his elbows, the gold medallion he wore making a soft clinking noise against the wood of the table. "So it's like that."

Scott sat back against his chair. "It's like that," he sighed.

"Then what's the problem? Old man Bidwell?"

"Her uncle doesn't think I'm 'western' enough for her." He stabbed a finger towards his brother. "You, he doesn't seem to have any problems with."

Johnny grinned widely. "You could have Murdoch step in and talk to Bidwell. Get him to loosen up a little."

Scott shook his head vehemently. His track record with fathers was not the best. He had, in fact, more experience at vaulting balconies and garden benches than he had with potential father-in-laws. And then there was Julie. She and her father were the lone exceptions. He'd been accepted, then rebuffed-not once but twice. It stayed with a man, that kind of rejection. He was no master in matters of the heart, but he wouldn't have anyone fight his battles for him, either.

"Why are you so late tonight?" Johnny asked.

He fingered the soft lining of his brown jacket, her scent still hiding within the folds. "The buggy wheel dropped a rim."

A frank laugh sounded from across the table this time. "You're gonna have to do better than that, Boston."

He lifted a shoulder and shrugged. "It's true. We were nearly killed going around Miller's Bend." A smile beckoned. "But the ride back together on the horse made it worthwhile."

"Until we came upon Bidwell, shotgun in hand, looking for us." The ramifications of the dicey situation back on the road made him wince. Tess's uncle had rounded the corner just as he was stealing another kiss. That and the stupefying explanation he had given the old man about the buggy losing its wheel had earned him no respect in her uncle's eyes. He sighed. He couldn't do anything right when it came to Mr. Charles Bidwell.

Johnny was still smiling. "It seems to me you got a simple problem. You already found the enemy. Now you have to engage him. Then…"

An eyebrow arched in defiance, hearing his own words from long ago thrown back at him. He softened. "I don't believe Tess would relish having me 'destroy' her uncle. You might have an idea about engaging, though."

"Engaging, huh? Now that _does_ sounds like a plan. 'Bout time." He could hear the warmth in his brother's voice.

Johnny yawned widely and stood. "You'll have to figure out a plan for old man Bidwell. But my money's on you. And you know I've got your back."

The muted voice floated back to him from the doorway-a bit wistful around the edges. "Scott…do you love her?"

"I love her." His answer was immediate, but finally saying it aloud scared him a bit.

"And what about Tess?"

"She loves me, too."

And that scared him even more.

~The End~

2~'09/12~'15


	10. Crack Fic: Spice of Life

Warnings: None. This is a Lancer Crack!Fic :D.

Spice of Life

Breakfast was finished in the Lancer household, not a minute after six o'clock, right on time. When the blue willow plates and coffee cups—mind the one on the left, it had a chip in the rim—were moved from the table to the sideboard, it meant that Murdoch could sit back and relax for a few hours until the noon time rush. Maria was quite demanding, some would say fastidious, in the kitchen. And Murdoch wouldn't have it any other way. Everyday she led her troops in cutting, dicing, braising and baking all for the good of the people at Lancer. That's why he was surprised when _they_ appeared. It had been perfectly fine until then. Why just the thought of them occupying the same shelf made him shake a little.

His tall, hand-crafted mahogany cellar was _the_ staple of the kitchen. He had lost track of how many dishes he was a part of, but had a hand in everything from pork roasts to beef tenderloins, from apple pie to green beans. He'd been with the hacienda since the day it was built, way before all the rest. He was a necessity. Not like them. Well, except for little vanilla. He had to admit a soft spot for her. He looked out for her and kept the dangerous foxglove away.

Vanilla was so tiny, with such a sweet disposition. Some thought she was plain or boring, but he knew better. Nothing artificial about her, she was pure and delicate, yet had a hint of spice. It sent his heart into palpitations just thinking about foxglove being next to her.

But now he had a whole new set of worries. Two more spices had shown up: cinnamon and chili.

Cinnamon was a real looker, long and lean, enrobed in a rich brown. He kept his sticks together in a glass jar with a fancy red ribbon tied around it. Truth be told, it seemed a little ostentatious. It just wasn't the way they dressed out here. Cinnamon seemed pleasant enough, and vanilla said he smelled nice, but there was a hint of piquant to him. Cinnamon had depths, and Murdoch didn't care for it—not one bit.

Then there was exotic-looking chili. In blazing red glory, chili sat by himself on the edge of the shelf, sneering at the rest of the spices. _Confident_. That one's fiery temper matched his peppery taste. If Murdoch wasn't mistaken, the room temperature had risen a few degrees since chili's arrival. He shook his head sadly, wondered how he would ever get that hot-head to toe the line.

This was a kitchen after all, they had to work together.

Maria bustled in, a full two hours early for lunch. She was humming and that meant only one thing—a new recipe. Murdoch inched over to peer down. Indeed, there it was on the tile countertop. As he it read it over, his innate instincts growled that the recipe was flawed.

He looked over at vanilla; she would be fine, always a steady addition. He looked with less favor on cinnamon and chili. They had moved together to the back of the shelf, already cozying up to lavender and lemon verbena. Every now and then lavender giggled.

From his position on the shelf, he gazed out the wide kitchen window to the grass and cattle beyond. His gut said it would never work, but maybe it was just the thing that would bring them all together. Perhaps, just perhaps.

The End

5~26~'12/01~02

Here's the recipe that 'brought them all together': The Baked Spicy Brownie (16 servings)

Ingredients

3/4 cup all-purpose flour

1/4 tsp. salt

1 Tbsp. plus 1 tsp. Dutch cocoa powder

1 Tbsp. ancho chili powder

1/2 tsp. cinnamon

5 ounces coarsely chopped dark (60 percent) chocolate

1 stick unsalted butter , plus more for pan

3/4 cup granulated sugar

1/4 cup packed light brown sugar

3 large eggs

1 tsp. pure vanilla extract

1/4 tsp. freshly grated ginger

Directions

Preheat oven to 350°. Butter sides and bottom of a glass or light-colored metal 8" x 8" pan.

In a medium bowl, whisk together flour, salt, cocoa powder, chili powder, and cinnamon.

Configure a double boiler. Place chocolate and butter in bowl and stir occasionally until both are completely melted and combined, about 6 minutes. Turn off heat, but keep bowl over water and add both sugars. Whisk until completely combined and remove bowl from pan. Let stand until room temperature, about 20 minutes.

Add eggs to chocolate-butter mixture and whisk until just combined. Add vanilla and ginger; whisk to combine. Do not overbeat the batter at this stage or the brownies will be cakey.

Sprinkle flour-cocoa mixture over chocolate mixture. Using a spatula (do not use a whisk), fold the dry ingredients into the wet until there is just a trace amount of the flour-cocoa mix visible.

Pour batter into the greased pan and smooth the top with the spatula. Bake brownies for 27 to 30 minutes; brownies are done when a toothpick inserted in the center comes out with a few moist crumbs. Cool brownies completely before cutting and serving.

Recipe created by Matt Lewis and Renato Poliafito


	11. Crack Fic: Ponyception

Warnings: None. This is Lancer Crack!Fic. Thanks to Wendy K. for allowing me to take the idea and gallop with it :D.

Ponyception

Scott had lost track of how long they'd been standing there beside the lake. It felt like a long time, however. He nodded towards the sun.

"Is that rising or setting?"

Johnny turned away from scraping a hole in the dirt with his shoe. He looked up and across the water, squinting.

"I don't know." He sniffed and blew out a breath. "There someplace you gotta be?"

Scott wasn't sure, and that was just it. He wasn't sure about a lot of things anymore, especially the trip to Lancer. He flicked away a particularly fat horsefly from his shoulder. Grandfather was right; they did grow them larger out west. "No, I think I'm good for now."

The white patches on Johnny dipped and swirled into one cohesive color at the top of his head, down his legs an inky black. Scott stretched out a fetlock, the striking color was so much different than his own tawny bay sprinkled with golden overtones. For two supposed brothers, they looked nothing alike.

"So why the long face then?" asked Johnny.

Now why doesn't that ever get old, he mused, remembering the same line when they first met in Morro Coyo, stepping down from what euphemistically had been termed 'transportation'. Scott rolled his eyes so hard the world lost focus for a moment.

Johnny waggled his ears, see-sawing them back and forth. The ears were expressive, and from what Scott could see a barometer of his brother's moods. Right now they were stock straight and pushed forward. He craned his neck to see what Johnny was looking at.

"Hey Scott, You think that's him?"

A mammoth-sized mottled grey Clydesdale, at least eighteen hands high, was approaching at a sedate pace. If this wasn't Murdoch Lancer he'd eat his hat. No great loss, the jaunty bowler didn't afford much shade anyway.

The Clydesdale studied them under a dusty forelock, then tipped his shaggy head towards the lake. "Drink?"

Feeling unreasonably peeved at being left waiting, Scott responded, "No thank you."

Murdoch looked to Johnny. "You?"

"When I know the horse I'm drinkin' with, yeah."

Murdoch suddenly smiled, showing great yellow teeth. "You have your mother's temper." He swung back to Scott. "And you have your mother's eyes."

Scott snorted, examining his hoof, not making eye contact. He always wondered where his long, curly eyelashes had come from.

"Your mother's family thought it was daft to marry a horse not a year off the boat from Inverness. You were foaled, she died and I left you in their stables. Period."

Murdoch turned his head to Johnny. "A couple of years later, I met your mother down at Matamoros. We horsed around then she…we got hitched. Two years after that, I awoke in the paddock one morning and found she had trotted off, you along with her."

Johnny reared back and pawed dangerously close to Murdoch's nose. "That ain't the way I heard it!"

"I won't have a bunch of neigh-sayers on my ranch! Let's get down to brass tacks, boys. I need help from the both of you. There's a young Irish stud kicking up his heels causing problems, his name is Day O'Pardee."

"Day-O'?" Johnny's hooves came back to earth with two ringing thuds.

"You know him?"

Johnny became coy, shook out his mane like a black waterfall. "Last I heard, he was down south hauling bananas, but yeah, I've seen him around a few of the circuits."

Murdoch turned to stare at the lake. "One hundred thousand acres. I've got a grey hair in my mane for every good blade of grass you see."

Johnny pulled back his lips. "So, it's the grass you're worried about?"

"Yes. No! Stop trying to confuse the issue."

Scott danced backwards a few steps, wondering if Murdoch was making the whole story up on the hoof.

The big Clydesdale side-eyed them. "What about it? A third for each of you, but I call the tune."

Saddled with a new father—and a brother—and the old horse wanted to blow the bugle. There wasn't enough oats in the…

Johnny whistled low in his throat. "Get a load of that filly."

Scott thought of beautiful Boston Barbara in her boudoir. He nickered softly, the alliteration always amused him. She was one of the longest legged fillies he'd ever known in a halter—and out. He shook his head back to get the hair out of his eyes and took a look.

"Johnny, she's a _pony_ for God's sake."

"Boys, this is Teresa, my ward." The booming emphasis on 'my ward' brooked no argument and nipped Johnny's "how _you_ doin' wink" to her in mid-wink.

Oh sure, the old horse had managed to keep _her_ at Lancer all right. Even for a pony she was small, so maybe Teresa didn't finish all her grain at night. Not much upkeep there. But she didn't appear at all useful for hauling hay or herding cattle.

Murdoch was pawing the ground, expecting an answer. Reluctantly, Scott nodded.

He'd been around a few stables, was old enough to know you whinny some, you lose some. Scott didn't intend on bucking the odds, not yet anyhow. He'd slip on a nosebag for now and have a good look around.

He could tell his brother wasn't used to having his fun reined in, yet he hoped Johnny would do the same.

#-#-#-#-#

Teresa surveyed the two stalls from her own comfy pen across the paddock. A cavalry horse from back east, all legs and dazzle. A flashy half-wild grulla from the border. They'd never look at her, a silly pony, with anything other than brotherly affection.

She'd have to be content with clover and sweet alfalfa—for now. She flipped her brown forelock behind her ear. But there wasn't a lot of time. Murdoch had already sent word to town for Doctor Jenkins to bring his snippers. She'd have to hurry.

The End

03~12/01~15


	12. Level, Sight, Cock, Shoot

Warnings: None, except it is in first person POV, if that's not your thing.

Level, Sight, Cock, Shoot

Big and fancy, I picked it out of five more lying under the clouded glass countertop at the gunsmith's. That was my taste back then. In guns anyway.

Scott said when he'd first seen it that the gun was something to keep and show my children and grandchildren someday. Then he shut up and shot me a funny look, like maybe he offended me or stepped into something he didn't really want to get into. I let him off the hook with a half-smile and shrug—he's my brother, but he doesn't know.

The barrel was cool to touch, its silver curlicues still shiny in a few places, the mother-of-pearl butt worn and smooth where it fit into my hand. The etched Mexican eagle on the handle was cracked a little and marred across its left wing. Just like I left it.

It still fit real comfortable in the cup of my palm. I hefted it, feeling for its quirky balance. And that's where Scott had it wrong. A thing like this—what it could do—is nothing for kids.

I never told anyone this story. I think I wanted to once, after Wes died, but there was too much going on. Too much dancin' around between Murdoch and me already. And Scott being mad at the both of us. Water under the bridge, then forgotten. No, I never told a soul—would be hard put to say why not though.

I was fifteen when I saw it in the smithy's window. I wasn't tall for my age, and alone in the dusty street of Sonora, I picked that gun to be mine, mainly because it was big and had a nice look to it. I liked the idea of being a small kid and carrying around something fancy like that.

The Colt had belonged to a soldado Mexicano and was a thing of beauty. I learned to shoot, but had little interest in fanning, wanting to feel the bite of the trigger as it pulled against me. My finger was red raw, blistered all around, and eventually ended up calloused.

I wanted that Colt, wanted to know who owned it before and what they'd done with it. It wasn't some prissy 32 caliber that a woman could carry in her possible bag; its curves were gentle-like, more sloping, its weight solid. A real weapon.

I learned the how-to's from an old man. He must have only been around Scott's age, but to me back then, he was _old._ Clean-shaven, except for a rowdy moustache that claimed his upper lip, and intense, he had long calloused fingers that tapped on the buttons of his vest as often as his cards. I'd do all I could to make him tell me about pistols and rifles, how he started. Sometimes he wore a slick contraption tied to his arm that held a small pistol, but only when he went to the Alhambra for poker. Guns weren't allowed there in the general sense.

He never married, nor had any kids that he knew of anyway. Good gunfighters, he told me, were men that made piss-poor husbands. Dallying is one thing, but keep it inside your trousers when women started looking in earnest.

But he called his revolver a _she._ "She could do with some oiling", or "take her outside and practice." And: "You take care of her and she'll do her best to keep you on the narrow."

Starting out, I wasn't a particularly good shooter. My hands were too small for the big Colt. A man needs a good length between the thumb and trigger finger to cock a pistol the right way and I didn't have it at fifteen. I remember fumbling with a two-handed grip, and sneaking glances at him as he stood off to the side. His "boss of the plains" hat covered his eyes, but I could hear something, a "tch" sound, like he was disappointed. He walked over to where I stood, sweating in the sun, thumb and finger pulpy, and traded his own smaller pistol for mine. Then he set up a four count beat, tapping the heel of his boot against the hard-baked ground until it rang. I knocked down six of ten cans that day.

It's been a lot of years since then, and I'd almost forgotten it. But when I dream of shooting, I still hear the pings from his boot heel: Level, sight, cock, shoot.

I practiced every day outside of town in a manzanita-filled draw: tin cans, bales of straw, paper targets on trees. When I wasn't practicing, I was thinking about the gun. Or holding it, rubbing my fingertips across the sharp edges of the carved eagle and the snake held in its beak. To Mr. Jimenez, the mercantile owner, I was lazy. My sweeping should have been better, more precise, to get the dirt out of the store, not in. My hands on the broom were clumsy. But as long as I showed up every day at two o'clock, no one cared. And I still had targets to hit, my pistol hidden under the floorboards of my cot in the storage room, ready and waiting. Mr. Jimenez would have never kept me on if he knew what I was doing. I had a feeling Mama wouldn't approve either, but she was gone so it didn't make a difference.

My teacher was a famous man. It was part of the town legend—how he took on three drunken American cavalry soldiers, half-soused on tequila himself, taking them out the hard way when they accosted a saloon girl. He was never accepted on either side of the border, too dark for one, too light for the other. Too dangerous all the way around. The proper folk would turn their heads when he passed. But the Alahambra's senoritas would look at him under their eyelashes and smile, arguing over who got to fix his plate of tamales and pintos whenever it looked like he might be hungry.

One afternoon, I got it in me to dodge Mr. Jimenez and went to the draw. I wanted to throw cans in the air and shoot them through before they dropped to the ground. Looking up, I saw two men coming over the rise. My teacher and another man—a vaquero judging by his braided chaqueta and silver espuelas—were arguing. I lined up the cans on the boulder.

Standing up straight, I drew my pistol half-way out of the holster then slipped it back in when the men stopped beside me. The vaquero was something else. He carried a double-holster, one gun riding on each hip, slung just low enough to pull the ivory-tipped butts out without a thought.

My teacher told him about my practice, spending time every day to shoot a few cans or pieces of paper. He was about to tell him about the can-in-the-air trick when the Mexican turned and said, "That's a big gun, pendejo…difficult to grip, no?" and they both looked at me.

"It's so big, and he's so small. But we're stopping you from practice. You shoot. Show me something."

My teacher stared at me, starting to explain that it was all in fun.

"I want to see him shoot," the vaquero said. "How old are you?"

"Fifteen, Señor," I said.

The Mexican nudged my teacher in the ribs. "He called me Señor." It amused him. He picked up four cans from the boulder. "Go on, shoot for me." My teacher nodded and they stood there, waiting.

The Colt was a heavy weight against my leg, the tie around my thigh pinched, drawing my skin together at the knot. But I hitched the belt up and stroked the pearl handle for luck, my heart pounding away, and got ready to miss. I watched him throw the first can into the air.

Even ten years later, I remember.

I didn't look at my hand or holster. I just pulled the trigger. The bullets boomed, one after the other, echoing through the draw like loud ticks from a bank clock. I shot the gun over and over, watching the cans jerk to the left and right. I did things with that gun my teacher couldn't do. I shot and shot, gripping the handle as I had never gripped a broom. Out of bullets, and out of breath—but _happy_ —I stopped.

The vaquero started to applaud and even my teacher clapped a few times, a strange expression on his face.

"Very fine. Bravo!" The vaquero slapped me on the back. "This boy, I think he could be a man after all." And they walked away, leaving me standing ankle deep in the scrub surrounded by wasted cans. I swept the spent cartridges from the boulder and sat. Utterly drained, the fingers of my right hand curled around the pearl handle while the fingers of my left caressed the Mexican eagle.

Like any real story, the ending of it is muddy and not really something that's satisfactory, as Scott would say. A few weeks later, Mr. Jimenez found me in the street with the pistol on my hip and threw it across the boardwalk in a pique of anger. The eagle was cracked, the front-site broken, the barrel damaged.

I took it to the gunsmith's for repair, but when it came back, it wasn't the same. The balance was off, the new site pulled to the left, and the patina of the handle was dulled. It didn't fit the mold of my hand like it did before. Still comfortable, but wrong.

I failed her. I didn't take care of her, so she wouldn't take care of me anymore. I took up with another pistol, given to me by the vaquero. This one was a sleek Starr revolver, with walnut grips. Lighter than my other, it had a double-action. The thought of switching made me feel disloyal but I was marked, the old Colt didn't like me anymore. And I had learned enough to know that using her would hinder me.

And, soon enough, I knew there would be a time when I needed to be fast.

The End

05~11/01-02


	13. Measured Up

Measured Up

Sliding his tongue around, he made sure all teeth were present, then spat out a glob of something bloody hidden behind a back molar. He leaned forward, stilling when saddle leather creaked. It seemed so loud. Listening harder, other noises drifted in: the keen of a killdeer in motion, a cricket chirping nearby, the muffled mewls of a calf.

It was the blueness of the ridge that pulled him to the spot hidden away under the wide trunks of two poplars. The peace in this place crept into his brain, lapping against it. Scott let his eyelids shut and wondered why he waited until now to come see her.

An itch moved down between his shoulder blades and he stretched, pulling on ribs that twitched. Shifting, but not finding a comfortable seat, he gave it up and slipped from the saddle.

Broken up patches of yellow and violet flowers—that was all he saw for a while, then followed the line of them up to the stone. Chiseled in granite, the craftsman showed expertise.

 _Catherine M. Lancer, Beloved wife._

Beloved wife. Not mother, just…wife. It was a petty thought, but still stung.

The sound of horse hooves drew his eyes to the ridgeline. Stray cows were rounded up and penned off in the southern pasture. Murdoch would be riding by to check, as he always did on Thursday afternoons. Needing reports and figures—but mostly to check on him. How he was measuring up. Well, there'd be news today.

The cowboy he beat to the ground was well-liked among the men. But just another man who measured and found him lacking. No remorse for the punches—the man gave as well as he got—only for the feelings that drove them.

Toby plodded towards him. Murdoch slowed the horse to a crawl, then a full stop, angling off the saddle with care.

Scott turned back to the flowers. A sparse area near the border of the stone looked out of place with all the color on either side of it. There was a rustle of grass and Murdoch's big boots slid in beside his own. A fleeting thought of galloping up the hill and over the ridge came to mind.

"Cipriano said you rode out after the fight."

A dignified enough retreat, or so he thought at the time. "It was a good time to leave."

"I bet. And I'm sure Jackson will thank you when he wakes up. Who started it?"

He managed a weak smile that filtered away quick enough. The cowboy swung at him for some unknown slight. Blood was let on both sides with the initial punches, but it was only the first one that really hurt, the rest were blurred and forgotten.

His anger got the best of him. No surprise there, it was coming on for weeks. Shades of Camp Meigs, where he ceased being Scott and learned to become Lieutenant Lancer. At least he had some sense of himself, a part of larger whole—what did he have here?

Murdoch stiffened and sighed over the silence. "You inherited my temper."

"What?"

"You're not the first Lancer to get bloodied. Nor do I expect the last."

No, not the first…images of Johnny tumbling towards the lake, then Teresa coming between them as if that slight girl could manage such a feat. Canting his head to the side, he eyed Murdoch, wondering when his father had first been bloodied.

"Jackson has a big fist. And from what I saw at camp, you have a big one of your own."

The grin crept back to his lips.

His father's tone changed, but his eyes remained on the stone. "You stayed away."

"I thought it for the best."

"Time to cool down."

"Yes."

"Were you coming back?"

Pressed, he couldn't give an answer.

Murdoch moved closer to the grave and flicked a few blades of grass from the top of the stone, letting his hand linger. "There wasn't enough time to say goodbye. Not properly, anyway. Then your grandfather…"

Grandfather...older now, but already old for as long as Scott knew him. And Murdoch…. He pictured him as young—all black hair with a wily smile—and tried to pin that image together with the solemn-looking lady above the fireplace mantel in Boston.

"Did you love her?"

"God, yes." The words hurried out of Murdoch's mouth. He swung back to face Scott. "And I wanted you."

The words threw him off-balance, almost missing what was said next.

"I brought her back as soon as I could. It was bad enough she died in Carterville, I wasn't going to leave her there."

Old hurts bubbled up. "Then why did you leave me in Boston?"

"It's hard out here." Murdoch fished into a pocket and pulled out his handkerchief. He gestured to Scott's lip and thrust it into his palm. "It was even harder to stay and do what I thought was right."

Scott stood waiting for his heartbeat to slow. It was a tangible thing, his anger, something held close and tight all these years. But here and now—in this peaceful place—the hard points of it started to dull.

"You've already proven yourself and, right or wrong, maybe that's what I was counting on in the beginning. But not any more."

Murdoch turned his head towards the carved stone to study her name. "Will you stay?"

Sparing a glance upwards, he found his father staring back at him.

"I'm asking, son."

He blinked hard at the worry found in Murdoch's voice. When did things change?

Scott closed his eyes and waited. Listening. Cattle lowed in the distance, but the calf must have found its mother, the bawling had stopped.

The whole of him shifted and settled. He looked up and his head slid into a nod.

The End

05~12/01~15


	14. Letting It Stand

Warnings: None. A sequel of sorts to "Measured Up". This time Johnny needs to make a decision.

Letting It Stand

Today was the day.

The curtain dropped from Johnny's hand and he settled back into the cushioned seat. He'd had some long nights before, this was just one more. It was a little past dawn and things were stirring on the ranch. He flexed his shoulders back until the bandages tugged on his skin. The burning pain was gone, but it was still sore enough that it mattered. A loose piece of gauze flopped over his belt. He fingered the bandage for a while, running the coarse threads through his fingers—then pulled it round and round, until it lay in a mangled heap at his side.

He managed to slide one boot on and was looking around for the other when there was a sharp rap on his door.

 _Scott._

He'd gotten to know that sound pretty well these past couple of weeks. One efficient knock—the man loved routine.

"Yeah?"

The door opened and Scott had his head halfway in before he could finish the word.

"Johnny?"

"I said 'yeah'. What do you want?"

Scott walked into the room and settled a hip against the table by the window. From his slump in the chair, Johnny had to straighten his spine to look up—it hurt.

"Are you always so surly in the morning or is it just for me?"

"Shut-up, Scott."

"Ah, it must be me."

"Don't pride yourself." He chanced another look upwards and saw the faded bruise on Scott's cheek. If it wasn't for the light coming into the window, he wouldn't have seen it. He felt for Jackson, being on the receiving end of Scott's fist. The tin-soldier was a puzzle.

And he didn't have time to figure out any puzzles.

"I think what you're looking for is over there." Scott bent away from the table and pointed. "Or under there, as the case may be."

The boot was tipped over on its side, halfway under the bed, one white sock dangling out the top. He waited, but Scott leaned back on the table edge and crossed his arms.

"I imagine you must still be fairly sore."

"A little." Maybe he should have said something more, like _why don't you get the damn boot,_ because Scott just stared at him.

Sounds drifted though the house; they'd be by the room soon—Murdoch or Teresa—to check on him. For a house the size of the hacienda, you'd think there'd be more room to hide away and catch some quiet time. Where people didn't fuss.

Scott's tone softened. "Are you staying, Johnny?"

He jerked at the question, but it was direct and he liked that. "A thousand dollars can keep me in a lot of beans and…well, it could sure help me get along." _Bullets._ Beans and bullets. Money offered a way, better than the one he'd had. Wasn't that all Madrid ever thought about?

"Get along…where?" Then Scott smiled—the same smile he wore back at the river, right before his fist went flying.

Quicker than he'd like, Johnny's hand went to his jaw and rubbed. "Guess I haven't thought too much about stayin' and suckin' up more of the Patron's good hospitality."

And that was a lie. Staying wasn't the only thing he'd been thinking of in these past few weeks, but it was real close. He eased back, letting his head drop while he picked at the red stripe in the fabric of his chair.

"You?"

It was Scott's turn to get fidgety. "I told Murdoch I would."

So that was it. Something changed between the two of them, he'd noticed it right around the time Scott came back to the house all banged up. His brother wasn't so stiff, and Murdoch…well, he smiled a little more. He lolled his head further back and eyed Scott, wondering what happened between them.

His head came up. "He ask you?"

Scott nodded. Johnny didn't want it to sting, but it did anyhow. The part of him that needed the beans and bullets snickered.

"You still have time to decide, Johnny. A few hours at least, before we meet the lawyer."

It was a joke, or could've been, if Scott didn't look so serious. Stifling a yawn, he pushed off from the table and headed for the door. "I'm going after a cup of Maria's coffee." He got just beyond the threshold. "I'll see you downstairs. He wants us to ride together in the carriage." Scott's voice held a hint of laughter as it trailed down the hallway.

Johnny shook his head and got to his feet. Shoving the curtain aside, he fumbled with the clasp at the window before getting it open. It would be so easy to ride off. No looking back. Nothing lost—except a little time, some blood.

He swung back to the bureau and took a misstep with his bare foot, landing against its side. Her picture rattled and swayed, he caught it by the barest of fingertips and set it right.

The door creaked opened and his father stepped in, taking up most of the space. He glanced at the bandages in the chair and frowned at him. "I heard voices…yours and Scott's. It sounded like you were awake."

"Been up for a while."

Sighing a little, Murdoch hitched to the bed and sat, his long legs bending as the mattress gave way under his weight. He stretched one leg out in front of him, angling the foot to the side. Looking over to the chair again, worry creased between his eyes.

"How are you feeling?"

"Tolerable."

He figured he said the wrong thing when Murdoch's lips clamped into a thin line. The old man looked damn uncomfortable, but it didn't have anything to do with the bed.

"Johnny, about today…"

"What's the matter? You change your mind?"

Murdoch's eyes went wide then narrowed. "Have you?"

He ducked his head and concentrated on the wood grain in the bureau. Maybe he'd played his cards too close to the vest with this Pardee thing. But it was done now.

 _You can leave at any time. Not a damn thing to hold you._ He thought about the folded-up envelope hidden under his mattress. He'd take the thousand and run. Just like old times.

"We had that picture made after we found out your mother was going to have you." Murdoch's gaze dropped to the folds of the blanket he was sitting on. "They say a woman glows when she's with child. Your mother certainly did."

 _Mama._ The scalloped ridge of the silver frame caught the light from the window, making it seem shiny and new.

Teresa told him the old man put it by his bed—there on the small table—the night after Pardee's bullet was dug out. The remembrance was hazy….he was so hot then, he figured seeing it was part of the fever. Until Teresa wrapped his fingers around the frame. It'd felt solid and familiar somehow.

"I should have known something was wrong." The deep timbre of Murdoch's voice made the bed jiggle with every word. "And when I did, it was too late. She was gone. You were gone." He raised his hand to swipe a wisp of hair away from his forehead. "I missed a lot of things back then."

Johnny wanted to jump on that yellow horse and ride as far away as he could. But his feet wouldn't obey. Bare foot slapping the planked floor, he made his way back to the chair. He dropped into it, sending a spasm across the wound and down his spine.

"She said you threw us out."

"I didn't." A hushed sigh escaped. "It was a miracle that I even met Maria."

"You didn't hate her?"

"Hate? No. But I was worried and angry—almost sick with it."

"For her runnin' out on you."

Murdoch sagged on the bed and shook his head. The creases lining his face went deeper, making him look old. "I wanted my son back."

Johnny was afraid if he looked toward the bed, everything he was ever told about Murdoch Lancer would go up in puff of smoke.

"I searched. Here, and across the border…for a long time. The fact I couldn't find you was my only regret."

And his old man was lighting the fire.

Murdoch heaved himself to his feet, and in two steps was standing by the bureau. He stared at the tintype, then nudged it back from the edge. "I want you to stay, son."

A lump sat heavy in Johnny's stomach. _Moving on_. The notion raised his spirits, at first. Gave him a way out. But now it didn't seem so clear.

"It's your choice, Johnny. Stay or go. But know that I'm asking."

He could up and leave, as he had in the past when things got too hot, and trouble came too near. But for some reason, he didn't want to go this time, didn't want to leave. He realized he was staring at the old man.

Murdoch stared back at him from the bureau, then did a slow turn and headed for the door.

Johnny strained to hear the sounds coming from the courtyard below the open window. A buggy was pulling up to the front, or maybe a carriage.

Murdoch was almost to the hallway.

"Wait..."

His father stopped, but didn't turn around.

"I need my boot."

Murdoch twisted to look at him. "Your what?"

He could feel the heat come up his neck. "My boot. It's under the bed and I can't get it. I'll be needing it…if we're goin' to town."

The End

5~12/01~15


	15. First Born(s)

Warnings: None, except the POV's change quicker than the tides. For Adriana ;-).

First Born(s)

Rain. Buckets of it. He tipped his head upwards to look at the darkening sky then immediately regretted it when the accumulated liquid on the brim of his hat sluiced down his already-sodden back. He swallowed an epithet aimed first at the weather then at himself. He should have made camp back at the line shack but Teresa had been set on preparing a special dinner in honor of his birthday. As it stood now, he wouldn't make it back to the house before nightfall. With any luck, they had gone ahead without him. It's not like he hadn't missed birthdays before, a few here and there, especially during the war, and then after-when he hadn't felt much like celebrating anything.

This birthday held all the promise of being a first rate debacle since he and Murdoch had argued bitterly the day before. Admittedly, it was usually his brother in this particular position and not him. He and Johnny had both experienced growing pains since coming to Lancer, albeit of different sorts. But lately, it seemed that he and Murdoch were more and more at odds with one another. This thing between him and his father had been simmering for some time. He was his own man, quite capable of taking on the responsibility of making decisions that impacted the ranch. He'd been tested before and he had always managed. Why couldn't Murdoch see that or relinquish just a bit of control? Arm, legs and guts-is that all he ever wanted of him?

The angry words he had spewed at his father the night before came back, unbidden, to his mind. Shame nipped at him and a bit of warmth crawled under his collar with the remembrance of it.

 _Stuffing his work gloves inside his hat, he stepped into the foyer outside the great room just in time to hear Murdoch and Johnny arguing back and forth._

" _I wanted that crew to round up the herd from Rincon Ridge, not go off on a half-cocked scheme to provide water for the northern valley."_

 _Johnny answered in turn, "Look Murdoch, I know we're kind of tight on time and men since the fire and all, but that crew was almost done with finding the last of those steers on the ridge, at least that's what Scott said. What could it hurt if they got pulled away for a little bit on another job?"_

" _Almost done isn't good enough and you know it," Murdoch snapped. "We'll be running at a loss anyway since the fire. The cattle were supposed to be moved to the eastern pasture starting tomorrow and that means all of them. Now we'll have to wait another day, maybe more, while your brother takes time to do what he thinks is more important."_

 _He'd heard enough and, while thankful for Johnny's backing, it was time to take matters into his own hands. He stalked into the room. Throwing his hat and gloves on the chair, he nodded to Johnny then moved to stand in front of Murdoch's massive desk. Folding his arms defiantly, he waited._

 _Johnny, looking at Scott then back to Murdoch and edged his way slowly around the desk. "Well, now that Scott's here…I guess I'll be on my way to see about those repairs to the barn window before dinner."_

 _Johnny brushed past him, sending a look of sympathy his way. He leaned over and uttered one quiet yet distinct word into his brother's ear as he passed by. He knew Johnny had heard the lone word-coward-when his brother flashed a wide grin on his way out of the room._

 _Murdoch's temper was in full rein and questions peppered from his lips. "Do you realize how far you've put us behind by moving that crew away from the job that they were assigned to? What was going through your head? Were you even thinking of the consequences?"_

 _Scott inclined his head towards the floor. He'd let his mind drift a bit during his father's tirade and a mental image of the outraged bull being castrated the day before suddenly popped into his head. Catching the word "consequences", he refocused on what Murdoch was saying. "If by consequences, you mean water for the range which means grass for the cattle, then, yes, I do understand the consequences of my actions. And I think you would understand them as well." He groaned inwardly, it must be the harsh work pace that was affecting him; he would never be that disrespectful to Murdoch under normal circumstances._

 _Scott raised his hands. "Murdoch, I'm sorry, but if you'll only take a few minutes to look over the plan, you'll see how good it is. We could have quality water to that pasture by the end of the month, and then it would be able to support even larger herds next year."_

 _Murdoch sent him a withering look, placed his large hands on the desk and leaned forward. "Have you started the surveying job yet?" he asked softly._

 _Another silent groan bubbled up, it was on Scott's list to do but he hadn't quite gotten around to it yet._

" _And when were you thinking about getting around to that job? After the season is over?" Murdoch's voice had risen in octave. "You'll do the surveying tomorrow and then help Johnny and his crew move the cattle to the eastern site like planned. Do I make myself clear?"_

" _Yes, Sir. It's quite clear…it's clear that you want to keep Lancer in the dark ages when we could spend a little extra time and money to think of the future and modernize the ranch. I was thinking that the next time we have a fire that takes out a thousand acres we could be prepared with a ready source of water, but I guess I was wrong."_

 _Briefly wondering who the coward was now, he turned on his heel and had left Murdoch alone at his desk, mouth slightly gaping._

He had gotten the surveying done, although it had taken him all day to do it. So caught up in finishing the activity that he hadn't sensed the impending storm until it was on top of him.

He pulled his wet coat tighter about his chest and shook a raindrop from the tip of his nose. With a wry smile, he remembered another time and another dressing down. Grandfather's reaction when he and a playmate had run off to sail around the world to the exotic lands of India had been less than ebullient. They had gotten as far as the harbor when the old man had caught up with them. Even so, the heated blistering from that time couldn't hold a candle to what he had experienced yesterday. A different time and a different man, but both hard-headed and not particularly open to differing opinions.

He conceded, after having spent a restless night pondering on it, that his father was probably right. He needed to get his work done on time and not worry about the extraneous things. Deep inside, a persistent voice still muttered that water access was never irrelevant and Murdoch knew it as well as he did. Tamping down that stray bit of rebellious thought, he sent his horse forward.

A blinding flash of lightning arched across the sky and illuminated the copse of trees he was riding through. Rolling thunder came swiftly behind it, sounding like distant cannons. His horse stumbled with the unexpected light and sound then shied violently away from the downed figure on the trail. Barely maintaining his seat, he looked ahead and saw a horse lying before him, turned to its side.

He dismounted and slowly approached the fallen animal. It was the pregnant mare that had gone missing. She had slipped away from the herd and with the fire taking utmost priority, had been forgotten. He gazed down at the still form; she had been a maiden mare and a young one at that, barely three years old. He sighed into the rain; there was nothing to do for her now. Turning to mount up, a speck of color in the underbrush caught his eye. He pulled back the dripping branches and uncovered a small hoof, its white fetlock shining in the darkness. Hastily, he dragged the scrub away to reveal a small foal-the mare's foal-still alive.

Murdoch pulled back the curtain and looked out at the storm. An arm of yellow lightning jiggered sideways through the rain and a resounding boom a few seconds later caused the window panes to rattle. His mind wasn't on the storm but rather on the argument that he and Scott had had last night. Simply put, he'd lost his temper. Ever since the fire had eaten away most of their hard-earned profits overnight, the work had been relentless. He'd felt the strain and he knew that his two sons had borne the brunt of it, Scott in particular.

Whether he wanted to admit it or not, he held Scott up to a different standard than Johnny. He expected certain things of his eldest; after all, Scott had the schooling and upbringing that Johnny wasn't privy to. Even if that schooling didn't have anything to do with ranching, he thought belatedly.

There had been disagreements before, but still…he'd crossed an unforeseen line last night with Scott. He'd known the exact moment his son had shut down, unwilling to go any further. His pale blue eyes-Catherine's eyes-had shuttered and cut him off without a single word being volleyed.

He swiped a hand over his chin. When did things change between them?

A soft drawl came from behind him. "He's all right, Murdoch. Scott knows when to come in out of the rain. Probably holed up somewhere ridin' it out."

Murdoch turned around to find Johnny staring at him pensively. "What? No, that's not it. I'm sure he's all right. It's just that…" He smiled sheepishly. "I wasn't quite sure if Scott wanted to come home tonight anyway."

"You mean after that loud 'discussion' you two had?"

Murdoch looked sharply at his younger son.

"Well, you rode him pretty hard yesterday. I 'spect the folks in Morro Coyo heard all the yelling that was going on." He hitched his side against the desk top and turned to the lamp, fingering the base. "It's not Scott's nature to run away from a fight, he'll be along."

Murdoch gave a frustrated wave of his hand. "It's more than that, Johnny." He once again lifted up the curtain and peered out through the rain beating against the window. "He's not…happy. He seems restless."

Johnny had been fiddling with the fringe on Murdoch's lamp; he abruptly dropped his hand and raised his head. "Restless? Like 'leaving' restless?"

Murdoch nodded; words had finally been put to his fears.

Johnny shook his head adamantly, "No. I would've known, Murdoch. He'd have told me."

A skitter of hope lanced through him. Johnny was his gauge with Scott. The two of them had grown closer than he dared hope over the last year. If Scott hadn't said anything to his brother then maybe, just maybe, he was wrong about what his son was thinking.

A scuff of boots sounded over the threshold. "Hey Boss, I just wanted to let you know that Scott's back." Jelly stood just inside the entryway, dripping water on the tiled floor. His thumbs were hooked under his coat and caught in the belt loops around his waist. Smiling, the handyman tipped back on his heels then rocked forward.

"What's goin' on Jelly?" Johnny said.

The smile went broad. "Just thought you both should know that he ain't alone is all."

Murdoch and Johnny shared a look.

"Yup, Scott brought home a little fella, all wrapped up in his coat."

"Well why hasn't he brought this 'little fella' inside so he can get warmed up?" Murdoch said.

Jelly swayed back on his heels, a smug expression planted on his face. "Oh, I don't reckon he'd do that."

Johnny, barely suppressing a grin, shook his head. "Jelly? You been out in the locoweed again?"

The smile disappeared from the small man's countenance and the rocking faltered, his thumbs popped out of their entrapment. "Now why do you always have to bring that up? It was only that one time and it weren't even my own fault."

"Because you're actin' all crazy, that's why…now where's Scott?"

Deflated, he jerked a hand towards the door. "He's out in the barn."

"Finally," Murdoch muttered, his boot heels clicking across the floor as he left the room.

Johnny followed at a more leisurely pace, stopping to nab the sleeve of Jelly's coat and giving it a gentle tug. "You waitin' for an engraved invitation? Come on; let's go see who Scott brought home."

Jelly's beaming smile parted his whiskers as he turned to follow.

Sliding the last foot to the barn through the misting rain and muck, Murdoch caught himself by the door and stayed upright. He could barely make out his son in the shadowy, lantern-lit stall, kneeling beside something in the straw. The old planks past the doorway gave a soft hiss when Murdoch put his weight on them and Scott abruptly turned his head towards the noise, a deuce mixture of annoyance and despair fluttering across his bedraggled features. He was more than wet, Murdoch thought, his sopping shirt hugged his spare frame like a second skin and soaked tendrils of bangs half-covered his eyes. Putting on what felt like a forced smile even to him, Murdoch moved forward to the stall.

He bent over the railing. "What do you have there?"

Johnny and Jelly, bumping each other through the doorway, came to stand beside Murdoch. "Yeah, what's the big secret?" said Johnny.

Scott came up on one knee and pivoted, revealing the quiet foal wrapped in his coat. Weariness tinged his voice, "He's from the lost mare. I found her on the trail during the storm-she's dead."

Johnny let out a long puff of breath and leaned over the slats of the railing, looking at the small bundle. "No telling how long he's been out there alone."

"Looks like he's pretty far gone to me," Jelly said, craning his neck past Johnny. "Sometimes Mother Nature just needs to take her own course with things."

"Not this time," Scott muttered and turned back to the foal. "Jelly, I need a couple of blankets and another bale of straw. And another lantern, too."

The small man's whiskers drooped into a frown when he rolled his eyes. "Sure, sure thing Scott."

Johnny stepped inside the stall and bent down beside the foal. Lifting the coat, he felt the colt's damp skin and ran his hand over the relaxed ears. "You know, Jelly might have a point there. Foals can die pretty easy-no matter how much time and care you give'em."

"Thanks for the veterinary advice, brother, but he's worth the time."

"All I'm sayin' is…"

"Johnny," Murdoch interrupted. He tipped his head sideways and motioned towards the door. "Go help Jelly, son."

Johnny opened his mouth to say something but snapped it shut instead. Slapping a hand against his thigh, he left the barn.

"You too, Murdoch?"

The accusation was laid crisply at his feet. It was almost a dare, delivered in that resonant voice, and was highly unexpected. Whatever was bothering Scott, it sure didn't get solved while he was out on the surveying job. He started to form an answer but was saved by Johnny and Jelly arriving with supplies. Taking the blankets and lantern, Murdoch waved them out of the barn.

"That was unfair, Scott," Murdoch said, and watched the tightness curl around his son's mouth. He lit the second lantern and placed the blankets on the straw.

"Sir, I can handle this."

"No one said you couldn't." The words had come out a bit too fast and a bit too sharply, because Scott had turned his back to him, unfolding the blanket. It was that damnable "Sir". His son's unerring politeness sometimes irritated the hell out of him. Was it just a year ago that he had told both sons to call him anything they liked? It was a decision he regretted since Scott had retreated more than once behind a façade of politeness, effectively throwing up a barrier between them. Feeling shut out and ineffective, he turned on his heel and strode from the barn.

It was quiet, save for the light rain tapping on the barn roof. Scott's shoulders, hunched over the colt, started to protest their awkward position. The ache was only partially eased with few backward rolls. He peeled off his wet coat from the foal and noted with dismay that somewhere during the trip, the side had ripped open. Flinging it to the corner of the stall with more force than was needed, it landed in a wad with a loud thwack. The abrupt, close noise startled the colt. Its eyes flitted open in panic and a hoof jerked forward. He watched, with hesitant satisfaction, the movement in the straw. Just as suddenly, the deep brown eyes closed again. Grabbing the first blanket he rubbed the colt's coat, vigorously drying it off. The second blanket was swaddled around the animal and carefully tucked under; straw was scraped together and mounded against the foal's back and sides.

Scott finally fell back on his haunches, studying his handiwork. He swiped a grimy hand across his forehead, shoving errant, sticky bangs out of the way. He had effectively pushed Murdoch out of the barn with his words as if he had physically tossed him out. He knew that he could trust his father, so why was it so difficult to just give in? To accept his help? I can handle this…and more.

Setting the thoughts aside, Scott tugged the blanket up higher on the colt's neck and stood to stretch the kinks out of his back. He needed to try and feed him, but the closest nursing mare was at the Anderson's, an hour's ride away. He'd seen Jelly with a nursing bottle the other day, for one of Teresa's stray kittens. A bottle and some goat milk-another of Teresa's projects, this time to make cheese-would set the colt up just fine. He fussed about the shelf in the barn, moving brushes and bits of wire, curry combs and a tattered stage schedule, in search of the flask.

"Looking for this?" Murdoch, silhouetted by lantern light, stood in the doorway, holding the bottle and a small pail. He placed a larger sack beside the stall.

"How did you know?" Scott asked, eyebrows knitting together.

Murdoch smiled. "I've been around, son. This isn't the first foal to come up without a mother." Silence greeted him. Scott's face was shadowed from the poor light in the barn so he couldn't see his son's reaction to the poorly worded statement. Gamely, he stumbled towards a safer topic of conversation. "It looks like you've made it home just in time for the storm to be over; the rain is starting to slow down."

Scott came forward and took the bottle. Feeling the heft of it in his hand, he looked back at the swaddled bundle lying in the stall, and fingered the flask, turning it over and over. Looking warily at his father, he said quietly, "I could use some help."

Murdoch hadn't realized it, but he'd been holding his breath and let it out in one large whoosh.

They knelt down beside the foal with Murdoch at the head. Scott took the tin of milk, flipped off the top, and hesitated before plunging his finger into the liquid. "It would be better if we had some sweetening," he murmured.

Murdoch's eyebrows rose.

Scott smiled faintly. "I've been around as well."

The warmed-up foal squirmed encouragingly when Murdoch raised its head. "Let's try to get some of this milk into him and if it doesn't work then we can get honey from the kitchen."

Murdoch watched Scott dip his fingers into the milk then into the foal's mouth, over and over again. His hands are big, thought Murdoch. Large, competent hands made calloused by hard work on the ranch. Just like his own. Or maybe they had been marked before coming to Lancer. His son's offhand comment about "being around" filled him with a sense of sorrow. Scott had learned many things, not by his hand but by others. Through his Grandfather, his schooling, and certainly during his time in the cavalry-and after. His thoughts strayed back to the night of the argument and picked it apart. Tempers aside, what didn't his son say yesterday?

"I think it's working," Scott said. "Let's try the bottle."

Murdoch took the filled flask. "Here, let me, I have experience."

"With Johnny?" Scott asked.

Murdoch fumbled the tip of the bottle into the foal's mouth and half-sighed. "Yes, for a short time, anyway." He pointed to the sack. "There's some clothes in that bag, you'd better change. And I think if you look hard enough, there might be a sandwich or two at the bottom of it."

Scott opened the sack and pulled out a smooth calfskin jacket. The softness of it had him turning the coat to the lantern, admiring the contrasting stitching on the sides.

Murdoch smiled. "It's from Johnny and Teresa, they went in together to buy it. Johnny said that you needed something flashy in your wardrobe to attract the ladies in Morro Coyo."

A cheeky grin was returned. "I don't think I have any trouble with that regard, and I'll have to tell him that the next time I see him. It's a fine jacket, though." He gave a disparaging glance to the balled up coat on the floor of the stall. "And it looks like it came in just the nick of time."

"It's still your birthday for another hour or so. Why don't you change and put it on?"

He worked quickly, feeling blissful relief when the dry clothes met his clammy skin. Finally slipping into the new jacket, he fingered a leather-trimmed cuff appreciatively. "It must have been expensive. They shouldn't have spent so much."

"It's not every day a brother, and a new one at that, has a birthday. They wanted to mark the day-to do something special."

"I seemed to have spoiled things, then."

"This is a working ranch, son, they understand. But God help you when Teresa wakes up. You did ruin her dinner plans." A smile tugged at the corners of Murdoch's mouth.

Stifling a contented moan, Scott sat back against the rails of the stall; stray crumbs from the sandwich dotting his jeans. He watched as Murdoch worked with the foal. It surprised him, this easy banter between them, given what went on the day before. It felt good-and right. His father's overall size was a given but what fascinated him the most was seeing Murdoch lightly touch the foal, deftly moving those big fingers up and over the small ears and neck, time and time again. He surreptitiously looked down at his own hands, even with dirt crowding under the chipped nails and roughness from hard work they were the same hands as his father.

A muted grunt made him look up and he saw a quicksilver flash of pain cross his father's face. He quickly got to his feet. "Here, Sir, let me help you."

Murdoch looked at the hand in front of him. So it was back to "Sir", but this time without the rancor. It was pleasing to his ears now, that simple word-and he knew it was just Scott's way. He grasped the hand tightly then unfolded his legs and lifted off from the floor. He felt Scott's left hand warm against his lower back as his son helped him from around the colt. Damn injury. But he was grateful for the closeness it forced.

"You'd better go to bed, Murdoch. I can handle it from here."

He lingered for a few moments with his hand on Scott's shoulder, feeling the curvature of it and the solid muscles underneath. I know you can, son.

Murdoch carried two cups of steaming coffee to the barn, studiously avoiding the large mud puddle he almost fell into last evening. He stopped just inside. Scott lay asleep against a straw bale, the new jacket wrapped around him like a blanket, long legs splaying out from underneath. A few rays of sunshine had made their way through the cracked window casting the top of his son's head in bright hues of yellow and silver. He stole a few moments and stared, feeling foolish for the want but delighting in it just the same. A rustle in the straw to his left drew his attention away. A small hoof kicked out and Scott startled awake.

"Easy…," Murdoch whispered.

They watched the struggle together. Nostrils flaring, the colt's back legs wobbled and straightened, weight shifting to its front knees. Once then twice the foal tried to stand, its legs collapsing each time.

"Come on," murmured Murdoch with Scott echoing in chorus.

One last burst of frenetic energy saw the colt standing on shaky legs, staring at his new surroundings.

Satisfied grins came from both father and son. In almost an after thought, Murdoch handed Scott a coffee. He saluted him with his remaining cup. "You did it, son."

Scott returned the simple gesture. "I think we both did."

A low whistle sounded from the doorway. "Who-wee, would you look at that." A wide grin was plastered on Johnny's face. "He made it after all. Good job, brother!"

Sobering, Johnny looked from Scott to Murdoch. "So, uh, is everything all right out here?"

A soft smile crossed Murdoch's face as he glanced at his eldest son. "Things are just fine."

"Well, okay then. Teresa has breakfast goin'. How about it?" Johnny said, rubbing his hands together.

Scott looked to the colt, standing more assuredly now, in the corner of the stall. Murdoch quietly spoke up, "Teresa missed out on a grand birthday dinner, son, don't cheat her out of breakfast, too."

"You'll need it, brother. We have a big day ahead of us with the herd. If you're nice to me, I'll even move you up from ridin' drag, bein' that you missed your birthday and all."

Scott clicked his tongue against his teeth. "Riding drag, hmm? I guess I'll need to wear my old jacket for that. Wouldn't want the ladies in Morro Coyo to miss out on my new one." He grinned widely.

"Breakfast sounds good, but Scott has other plans for the day. You'll need to find someone else." Murdoch said. He looked pointedly at his first born. "The fact of the matter is that Lancer needs an irrigation system."

His decision had been an easy one, after he had figured things out. Scott had 'handled' things ever since coming to the ranch. There had been arguments in the past and probably would be more in the future, but in that quiet, undemanding way of his, Scott had already made his mark. Why hadn't he seen it before? He'd often wondered what would keep his city-bred son content at home on Lancer. But he didn't need to worry any longer.

The End

Jul/'08


	16. Contra Spem Spero

Warnings: None.

Contra Spem Spero (Hope Against Hope)

Murdoch probably wouldn't have noticed if he wasn't looking for it. Scott favored his left side. He saw it as his son rounded the corner of the kitchen table. When Scott sat, he canted to the left, and Murdoch knew he was hurting more than he let on back at the meadow.

Good. It's what you get when you're brash enough to veer off and circle around a herd of bawling steers. Like Scott knew where they were going to bolt before the cows did.

A rolling split of thunder vibrated the windows, the lamp flickered, held. Pencil secured between teeth and lips, Scott scraped his mug to the side and unfolded the map, pressed it flat with the heel of his hand.

Murdoch sniffed his coffee until the deep chicory scent overpowered the stale smell of damp clothes and cows. He thought back to the squelch of leather, the slap of wet cotton tic when Scott climbed out of the culvert. The boy had checked his horse first, found it still suitable after the unexpected plunge through rain-softened ground, then turned with a wry smile. He was good at hiding things, keeping to himself—thinking. Had developed a propensity for it over the last few weeks. It was a bad habit in a land that didn't care one way or the other.

Murdoch had plenty to say about it, but that conversation was loaded with switchbacks and dead end trails. So he said nothing and took a gulp of steaming coffee. But he knew a way or two around this young buck.

Halfway to a stand and pain whispered across his back. Nothing sharp or biting, or pervasive. Just there. Since the shooting he'd learned to ease his frame upwards and did so now, taking his time, masking the need for support by holding on to the chair, giving it a casual push. He didn't look across the table to see if Scott noticed. That one saw far too much half the time.

He stretched the taut muscles on his way to the Great Room. Could find his way in the dark, blindfolded if need be the path was so familiar. The fire was banked, but red embers sent out a welcome hiss of heat. He ran his fingers along the smooth grain of the walnut cabinet, found the silver clasp, then caught his shadowed reflection in the mirror. An old man stared back at him. A full day without shaving and cheeks were prickly with grey stubble.

There was dirt under his nails, creating dark half-moons. Remnants of swirling muddy water and urgency. He was unhurried when he reached into the cabinet, his hand bumping past glasses until he found the whiskey in the back. He set the bottle on the cabinet top, fingered the unbroken gold and green seal.

It had been rough since Pardee, one calamity after another, but he had to admit Scott was focused and attentive every step of the way. Except at the very first. For a while Scott had floundered, maybe the land was too vast to take in all at once. Too different from Boston. But it seemed that his son, what was the word Scott used? _Reconnoitered,_ adapted. There were three of them now and it created a forced dependency on one another. One that chipped away at underlying resentments. But no trust yet, despite the signing in the lawyer's office. Trust called to mind a family, and that would take time.

There had to be time.

~o~O~o~

"What's the occasion?" Scott's eyes flicked to the bottle, wary.

The Lagavulin weighed heavy in his hand. "The herd all in one piece. If not my son."

The corner of Scott's lip curled up in droll amusement, and—damn it—if he didn't look like his mother. It made Murdoch want to squeeze the air out of him, or throttle him. He did neither, only poured the whiskey into their coffee mugs, topping Scott's until it swirled to the brim.

They were both refilled after each took a long pull.

Murdoch watched his son's profile, face downward, shiny with sweat and leftover rain, pale like the walls of the kitchen. His left hand snaked around his cup in that particular full palm grip Harlan could never have approved, while the right worked the pencil tip against the table top. Tap, tap, tap.

He tolerated the methodical rhythm until Scott glanced up.

"What are you looking for?" It came out sharper than intended, a challenge. Maybe the tone was leftover from the _my God_ that shrieked through his mind at seeing his son pitch head over ass like a marionette whose strings were suddenly yanked tight.

"A way around. The trail we used today is obviously unstable. And will remain so long after the rain is gone. Yet we still have to move the rest of the cattle from meadow to meadow. Any more weight on that side," he made an arc in the air with his hand, "and the cattle would have dropped into it."

Scott pulled the map closer towards him, rolled the pencil between three fingers, because he just couldn't leave it alone on the table. Mindless movements as regular as a metronome. He blinked and sent one finger on a hunt along the blue and red lines that marked the western parts of Lancer, shook his head and started again. Brought the mug to his lips blindly and swallowed, never taking his eyes off the map.

Murdoch wanted to lean over and see where Scott was tracking but didn't. "What is it?"

Brows furrowed. "The bridge over Touching Creek is…"

"…not fully repaired yet after Pardee's fire." Murdoch tipped the bottle and poured.

Scott absorbed the information, nodded. The pencil tapped, while his finger pushed though more valleys and streams. He stilled, then scribbled out two crosses. Gave a lopsided triumphant grin. "Here. We need to travel this route next time. A little longer, but safer for man and beast." The whiskey was making a dent.

Murdoch looked at the path Scott had chosen. It was solid, circumvented most of the current disasters that befell the ranch. Twenty-four years old, a green boy from Boston, and things came to him intuitively. More so than they ever did to Murdoch at that age. He was confident, physically strong. And while sometimes a pretty face turned his head, Scott's instincts were on target. His son would do well at ranching. Murdoch felt a swell of pride. His mother would have been proud, too. He studied the half-moons under his nails, on weathered hands that Catherine would never hold.

Yes, she would be proud.

~o~O~o~

It took longer than Murdoch thought. The boy could hold his liquor. And expensive, the Lagavulin was almost empty. Scott was well and truly drunk, looked owlishly around the kitchen like it was the first time he'd seen it. Had to be physically persuaded to drop the pencil.

Murdoch captured Scott's ranging arm and slung it over his shoulder, heard a grunt as together they lifted up and away from the table. Thin as his son was, he was also tall and capable and weighed a ton. They staggered to the stairs.

Hellishly long, those stairs. Murdoch detoured into the Great Room.

Scott pushed away and made a single-minded beeline for the sofa. One shin barked against the coffee table, sent him on a trajectory to the right. Before Murdoch could grab an elbow, the heel of Scott's boot caught on the throw rug and he fell into the cushions. Mission accomplished.

Murdoch left him sprawled on the sofa, took the poker from the hearth and stirred the embers for more heat. He added a few pieces of kindling, when Scott started to snore.

His fingers felt thick, working the boy's shirt buttons. He tilted his head to the side, lips pressed together, trying to see in the dim light. Damn tiny things. The baby dress Catherine had sewn—a bunting or some such other—had two long lines of pearl fasteners running up each side. Maybe it would have been easier then.

It wasn't as bad as he thought. A blackened bruise rode from Scott's beltline to mid chest under a messy scrape. Bad enough to warrant stopping work, the crew. He glanced at the old clock beside the bookcase. Not too late for cleaning, however.

Tomorrow he would talk to his son about injuries, the need to declare them. Better to have a man out for a short time, to heal. It wasn't correcting a wrong. It was about being piece of the bigger whole at Lancer. He needed to make sure Scott understood.

Somewhere on the way back from the kitchen, a feeling of resignation settled over him. He was going to mangle the conversation, he just knew it.

Scott hissed, jerked away from the wet pad pressed tight to his side. His fingers clutched air, found a home in Murdoch's shirt, twisting the blue wool.

"It's all right, son. It's all right," Murdoch soothed, almost crooned. It was the best he could do.

A flutter of limbs and Scott settled, his snores loud and ragged. A few more hours and daylight would bring a headache as painful as his ribs.

Pouring out the last drink, he stopped to examine the lines etched around his eyes. He inched a fingernail under the torn whiskey label, peeled it off. There will be time, Murdoch silently told himself in the mirror.

He'll stay, he told the old man.

The End

11/2011 (revised 6/2013)


	17. Paucity

**Warning: Some sexual connotations—nothing graphic. First person outsider POV, if that's not your thing.

Paucity

The first hour was pure misery. By the second, I'd almost gotten used to a strange hand cupping my backside or brushing against my breast. Almost.

Then it rained.

Leaning against the window, my nose was all but pressed to the glass pane. Damp air made the sateen dress cling to my body, outlining curves that shouldn't be shown. I tugged at my waist, wishing for all the world it was my cotton shift and I was somewhere else.

A mid-summer spurt of showers. Rain always reminded me of the meadow just behind the barn, with its tall grasses so green and sweet-smelling. Male sweat and stale tobacco were welcome then, and honest in their coming.

A man rushed in out of the wet, taking off his hat and slapping it against his thigh. His movements wasted no motion—the confidence of one who knows his place in the world. My Samuel was the same—before.

Lil brushed against my shoulder. "Now that would be Scott Lancer." She huddled in and pulled on my capped sleeve, like a sister with a big secret. "You missed the big doin's a month ago. They say he and his brother rousted out Day Pardee and his gang."

The names meant nothing to me.

"Like some fairytale, him and his brother comin' here. This one went to some fancy school. Johnny now…" Lil's rouged mouth formed a wide "o" and she let out a small moan of want. "Well, he's dark and wild-looking. I'd sure like to see what he's got to offer a girl."

The heat rose to my cheeks.

"But that Scott Lancer paints a pretty picture, too, don't he? Real…watchable." Lil shrugged her dress down, exposing the deep cleft between her breasts. "But I wanna do more than watch."

Taking off with a determined strut, her hips swaying, Lil slowed and stopped by the man's table, one hand casually going to the side, pulling her dress tight. She leaned over, bulging out of her bodice. "What can I get for you, honey?"

The man shifted in his chair, fighting a grin. "I'll take a beer, Miss."

Lil ran a ruby-tipped finger from his shoulder down to rest atop his wrist. "Just a beer? Now we're a real friendly sort in here, Mr. Lancer. And I like to be friendly, especially with such a handsome man."

He eased his hand away from under her fingers. Gaze lowering, he scanned what was in front of him, then his eyes lifted. "Just the drink."

Stalking back to the bar's edge, Lil hissed in anger. "I'll be goddamned. That high falutin' son-of-a-bitch turned me down."

Blinking, I swallowed a tickle of laughter. Fire still smoldered in Lil's eyes when she grabbed my elbow. "Think you can do better, Rosie? Go on. Maybe he likes his women green. Break you in real nice, I bet." Lil cocked her head to the far side of the counter. "Or maybe his fancies run to the pig across the room."

Carlson was standing in the corner with folded arms. Shuddering, I remembered the hard press of his desk against the small of my back, then retching all over his tided papers when he reached for his trouser buttons. It earned me a back-handed cuff—and the satisfaction of watching him wilt. There'd been no one except Samuel. Not yet.

Lil pushed me forward. "Go on, earn your keep."

The man was tall, even sitting down. He glanced up with a wry expression as I approached.

"Are the General's reinforcements being deployed already?"

And sunburned, a small span of freckles marched across his nose under the peel. "The General? Who…Lil?"

"Is that her name? We never ventured into real…conversation."

Sweeping in the frowning Carlson, my voice went crisp. "They don't like for people to just come in and sit. You have to order something."

He tilted his head, assessing. "I thought I'd ordered a beer." Lifting a shoulder, he shrugged. "But perhaps not. I'll have the wettest you can find, to complement the weather."

Nodding, I hurried to the task, and side-eyed him from the pock-marked bar. The pistol on his hip rode too high—he was no shooter. He had an easy way of walking that caught a woman's eye. Dashing in a rumpled sort of way. The kind of solid fantasy a woman might fashion to dress up a pawed-over, end-of-the-line life.

"Rosie! Beer's up." Jim's voice, full of irritation at my day-dreaming, pealed out from behind the bar. The glass was almost half-full of head. A week ago, I didn't know there were rules: beer mostly foam, and liquor under the bar—watered down. Give the customer what he wants, upstairs and down, but only if it profits the house. The litany of rules rang like a dinner bell in my head. Ding! Ding! Ding! An echo of the slaps that went along with the learning. Not meeting Jim's eyes, I took the beer.

My hands trembled and the drink tipped from rim to rim, dribbling onto the man's sleeve. Rearing back, I waited for a grab and pinch that never came.

A quicksilver of a smile crossed his face instead. "You're not very good at this, are you?"

"I'm…new."

He leaned in and a rain drop fell from the point of his chin. "Someone watching?"

My eyes flicked to Carlson, confirming it.

"Then sit. We'll give him a good show."

He swept a finger under his chin and wiped the rest of the rain away. Ignoring the spillage on his sleeve, he held up his beer in a mock salute. "In the city, rain has the common decency to let you know when it's coming and it last for hours. These short spurts only serve to agitate, and make more mud."

From the looks of his pant cuffs and boots, he had encountered mud sometime this morning. A lot of it.

His right hand was gripping the handle of the glass, big and raw-looking, the knuckles scarred with red and cracked. The kind you get from repeated washings—or a fight or two. He brought up a pair of new hard-leather gloves from his waist band and placed them on the table. Butter yellow, they seemed out of place in all his brown.

He caught her smile. "The last pair at the store in my size. Not exactly the color I was looking for in gloves."

"They look real pretty."

His jaw tightened as he felt along the ribbed seam of the left glove.

"What I mean is, you'll stand out with them."

He sagged back in the chair. "I seem to stand out a bit too much already."

A flash of blisters crowned the meaty part of his palm, when he pushed damp bangs out of his eyes. So he was no cowboy, either. Just like Samuel hadn't been a farmer. At least starting out. Oh, how his fingers and hands blistered that first month!

Without thinking, I took hold of his hand and turned it palm upwards, fingering around the sore spots. "My husband used to get these. They'd sometimes fester if he didn't take care of them. A good practice is to soak them right away in warm water then keep them dry and clean. In time, they callous over and you'll be as good as new. Better, even."

He watched me, but I couldn't read his expression. Maybe he was staring at my own calloused hands and chipped fingernails.

He captured my left hand and traced the white outline of my wedding band where it still showed against brown skin, his touch light, soothing.

"How long ago?"

The ring was warm against my chest, pinned into the folds of my chemise. "One month." But Samuel had been dead inside long before his funeral ever took place.

"So you are…new." His words hinted at things I didn't want to relive. Instead, I concentrated on the rain as it tip-tapped against the window beside our table.

Mindful of what Lil had said when he entered the saloon, and of the fact I needed to earn my keep, I looked at him. Rule number three: Keep the customer engaged. It wasn't hard. "How long have you been here?"

He ran a finger around the rim of his glass. "Thirty-three days. But then, who's counting?"

He * _was*_.Counting the days, just like me. And pulling my old dress out of its hiding place in my pillow case, running my hands along the soft, blue cloth to remind me of where I came from, who I once was. My pillowcase dreams.

"As I was saying, the rain in Boston has presence, not like this mere smattering."

Back east, then. Should have guessed. Casey Wentz, the drummer who used to stop by the farm every fourth Tuesday sounded just like him. Samuel always admonished the boy—"Talk right! You're in a new country now!" This man looked like he could withstand some good-natured ribbing, but there was serious side to him. Maybe he'd had enough lately, if those marks on his knuckles were any indication.

"So you're new, too."

He nodded. "A very long and complicated story. Suffice to say that I found a father…and a brother. And I don't know what to do with either of them."

"Why do you need to do anything with them?"

"Quite right. The saving grace is that they don't know what to do with me, either." He said it with a sad smile and looked out the window. "What would you do if you weren't sure you could make it?"

Now there was a question. A hundred times I told myself it would be all right to come to this place. And a hundred times my little voice yelled back that it was a lie. By the second day of having a roof over my head and some semblance of food, I learned to tolerate it. After a week, I'd begun to believe it. The little voice had gone quiet—it scared me.

Those blisters on his hand came to mind. "I guess I would keep trying."

A raucous laugh—Lil's—came from the back corner of the saloon. Carlson moved from his perch beside the bar and slithered to where the noise was worst, one hand fanning the butt of his six-gun. My new family. It made my stomach hurt. Run, I wanted to tell him. * _Get away now_ *. Our topic of conversation needed to be changed.

"What was Boston like?"

A smile, just a small one, graced the corner of his mouth, and grew until it reached his eyes. "Green and blooming. My grandfather would be cursing the golden rod about now." His smile wavered a bit over the word * _grandfather*_ then returned. "He would keep the windows closed during springtime; sure of the fact it would stop his sneezing."

"Did it?"

"Never. Especially since I kept mine open." He winked.

His eyes lit up telling me about the big harbor, his school, even the beginning of his Army life. It was small talk—family talk—and it made me ache inside.

"What about here?"

He sobered. "My father is bigger than I envisioned. Louder. My brother, Johnny? He's difficult to describe so you would get a good picture. Colorful, maybe? I've never met anyone quite like him. Hard to figure out. There hasn't been much time…."

Restless, he picked up his gloves and put them back down again. "The land here is wild and wonderful. It will take a lot of taming to make it work. My father has aspirations, you see."

"And you?"

"A few, in Boston, before the war. Things came about that forced changes, and now I'm not sure they're the same anymore." He pinned me with a stare. "It's been difficult coming out west."

Searching. Trying to find his way. That's what he was doing.

Tipping his glass, he swallowed the last bit of beer. "What about you?"

"We had dreams in the beginning." The disease wasn't so much to start, but watching him waste away was terrible. My tone became bitter. "All the west did for my husband was to send him to an early grave. And when the bank took over the farm, it was like losing him all over again."

His expression went unreadable again, eyes dark and troubled.

"A footstep behind my chair made me cringe. Carlson was there. The smell of urine and cigarette smoke preceded him.

"You been dallying over here too long, Rosie. We got paying customers you need to attend. Now." He hauled me up against his hard chest, a smile splitting his pitted face in two. "Upstairs."

My lips pressed together—something, anything to stop them from trembling. Heat crept up my neck; my table mate's eyes were probing.

"Wait." He dipped his hand into his shirt pocket and slid a few dollars across the table. "I'll pay for her time."

Carlson reached for the greenbacks. "Mister, I'm thinkin' this whore ain't up to your standards, but it's your money."

"I said I'll pay…for her time. Not yours." He divided the lot and pushed half of them towards me.

Eyes narrowed, Carlson looked down at the money, then back at me, his grip lessening. "Suit yourself. Bed's up the stairs."

Something twisted in me as I stared at the man across the table. He wanted the same thing every saddle tramp that came through the swinging doors wanted, back east manners or not.

Lil smirked at me as we walked past her. "What's the matter, Rosie? Halo get tarnished a little? You just call if you need help. Maybe he'll tip big for a little extra entertainment."

My heart pounded with every step. Whether it was rage or the harsh sense of something good lost, I couldn't tell. How could I have been so wrong?

The closed up room was dark, oppressive with the humidity, but he wasn't going to see me, not in the light. Somehow that just made it worse.

"Set the lamp."

My shoulders slumped. Lighting the wick, I watched our shadows jump against the wall. Then turned from the lantern—and _him_ —and reached for the buttons on my dress. Fumbling with the first, the second popped free from its threads.

"Rosie."

My chin tilted upwards. "It's Rosemary."

Boot heels were muffled by the braided rag rug. His hand was on my shoulder. It was warm, burning straight through me, souring my stomach.

"Rosemary, stop. I don't want it this way."

Twisting around, my dress gaped apart. His eyes stayed even with mine—I had to give him credit. "Then what? You want me on my knees?"

He startled back, staring at the wadded-up blanket on the bed.

Bile rose to the back of my throat. Once just a farmer's wife with simple worries: counting the number of broken eggs in the henhouse, working through a summer storm that wreaked havoc with my root garden, finding cloth to make bedroom windows. Once I'd slept in a hand-carved oaken bed, instead of this short cot and straw-stuffed mattress.

The sting of tears made me flinch, but he wouldn't see me cry. The past few hours had meant nothing to Scott Lancer—and the world to me. Why did I expect him to give me a second thought?

My dress was open and the tops of my breasts showed full under the corset as I sought the laces. "You gave good money."

"Not for this."

I wanted him to hurt, just as much as I did. "Why? Not good enough for you? Not like those fancied-up madams on the city streets, I bet. How much did you pay them?"

"God, just stop."

My hands fluttered then stilled. Betraying tears, the same ones cried so many times before, threatened to spill. "You paid, damn you." Clutching my dress together, I looked away.

"I'm no saint, Rosemary, but I don't want this."

My eyes brimmed. "Then what?"

He stalked to the far corner of the room and stood. "I want it to be tomorrow already."

Barely spoken aloud, it stopped me cold.

His shoulders came up with a shrug and he turned around. "A man likes to feel needed, that he's contributing—a part of a bigger whole."

He was miserable, not seeing it. Men and their pride. Samuel was the very same. "Your family is here."

"A family who I don't know."

"Still, it's family."

He blinked. It was wearing at him, I thought. Even the strongest of men had chinks in their armor. He wanted to be good at what he did.

"It may just be a silly female desire, but you build dreams— _together_. You shore each other up."

That silenced him. He was dead-on serious, thinking. Something passed over his face and the taut lines eased a bit. "I'm an idiot."

"No, just hard to see past the blisters. This time will pass."

"I've never been good at waiting."

"Isn't it worth it?"

He was thoughtful again. Maybe that new brother and father would turn the tide. He looked at me with those solemn eyes. "What do you want Rosemary?"

"To be safe." And to find myself again—the woman that got lost somewhere between sickness and hell. A hot lick of anger swirled, but I realized it was for me, not Scott Lancer. I stared down at my rumpled dress. What in God's name was I doing here?

"Then do it."

My own words were flung back at me, but they didn't hold any meanness, just quiet resolution. My cheeks were hot with unshed tears. Completely alone—I never considered such a time, not until after the burial. The few people who attended had drifted off a few days afterwards, leaving me to the fields and the debt collectors.

"You can quit this place, Rosemary. You need to leave…as much as I need to stay."

Grunts and groans of coupling grew louder behind the thin walls. A cold finger punched my spine. Sounds so foreign a week ago, but now commonplace. When had I given up?

He moved from the wall and dug into his back pocket. "Here."

Men weren't the only ones with pride. "Your family?"

He shook his head. "It's not needed."

"But I bet you are."

His head canted to the side and he eyed me. "Perhaps." Then softly, "You don't belong here."

There was a time, in the evenings especially, when Samuel would gather me to his side and we would stand together looking out over the meadow behind the barn. Building our dreams.

"Let me help, Rosemary."

Half-expecting him to pull his hand back, I looked at the crinkled bills in his palm, considered them for a long time. The money was there, just waiting…and so was my pillowcase.

The End


	18. Just a Dollar

**No warnings. From 2011.

Just a Dollar

The mission bell woke him. So loud it vibrated the window pane. Johnny's head felt heavy. Hurt, too. Bitter bile threatened at his back molars. As far as he knew, he hadn't thrown up. Yet. So he kept his eyes closed, took stock.

He was in bed. Naked. Left arm asleep, except for a few pinpricks running down to his fingertips. He was warm, blessedly so, the blanket and sheet heavy over hips and belly.

The linens smelled of sweat and tequila and coupling. That was reason enough to open his eyes, but he didn't. Then a female body shifted, spooned into him, skin smooth against the rough hair of his thigh and chest. A flood of hot tingles rushed up to his shoulder from his dead arm and hand.

And with no effort on his part, yesterday slid back, as jarring as the peal of Christmas mass.

#-#-#-#-#

Johnny was tied to the land by a piece of paper and a promise, but that didn't stop him from wishing he was someplace warmer and drier than Morro Coyo in December. It had rained every damn day since the second.

The work wasn't going to break him—he liked _that_. It was all the other: manners at dinner, smiling through cattle meetings, the big holiday fandango Murdoch was throwing tomorrow. How many people were going to be there? Twelve? Twenty?

He stamped the cold out of his feet and stepped into the mercantile.

"Stop him!"

Johnny whirled and jerked the kid halfway off his feet. There was nothing to him except a yard of dishwater blond hair and big green eyes. At least he thought they were green, right now they were pegged to Eli's floorboards.

Eli came around his counter, a little breathless. "Thanks, Johnny." He tipped his head. "It's Tim Sweeney, Jeb Sweeney's boy."

Name meant nothing to him, but the look on the kid's face. _Dios_.

"Open his coat."

The kid made a little sound of disgust when Johnny reached for the buttons.

Hunched with hands on knees, Eli got himself a good look. "I thought so." A small bag of coffee was stuffed inside, between the boy's arm and belt. "What else has he got?"

"Nothin' else, I swear!" The boy bit his lower lip, chewed. Freckles were stark spots of brown against too pale skin.

Eli took hold of a coattail and dragged him closer to the counter. "Came in two, three times this week. Always looking in my glass case." Pushed his wire rims up higher on his nose and dug a hand into the boy's pocket. "I had a feeling he might try something."

Out came a penknife and a palm-sized velvet bag.

"I got money." The boy shuffled in place, pulled out a crumpled bill and a few coins.

Eli jabbed at the pennies. "Not near enough."

Johnny angled out a hip, sighed a question. "How much?"

"Reckon all told, it's seven-fifty for the lot." The storekeeper shook his head. "Sweeney hasn't paid his tab in five months. But any given Tuesday I can find him over at the saloon. I have to make a living, too, Johnny. Am I supposed to give out charity to everyone?"

He dipped his head. "No one is asking you to stake Morro Coyo, Eli."

"Maybe I can see him the coffee, but that jewelry and penknife are going back into the case. Boy was gonna sell them on the street, I bet. That brooch came all the way from St. Louis." He patted back a bit of stray grey hair and groused, "I should turn him over to the sheriff."

Tim eyed the knife like a dog waiting for suppertime. "Let me go."

The attitude was full of bristles. He was the type of boy who'd bristle even more if attention was drawn to it, so Johnny let it slide. But as soon as the boy looked away, Johnny saw a change. He was scared of something, either the law or his Pa.

Johnny knew that was how it started.

"You can't hurt anyone with that letter opener. For that you need this pig sticker." Johnny picked up the gleaming silver bowie knife from the case. Hefted it, felt the balance. It was true.

Eyes widened. "Don't mean to stick anyone; just want to carry it around."

"Uh-huh, so the knife's just for show then. Well, how about a gun? A gun can do some real damage." He took his pistol out and spun the cylinder, slid his hand along the side of the barrel. It was truer than the knife. He flipped the butt end towards the boy.

Tim took a step back.

"Fair enough," he grinned, and pushed the gun back into his holster. "I hear Rosa's serves real good food. You hungry?" And he timed it.

Took all of three seconds. The boy gulped, straightened his back and stuck out his thin chest. "Nope."

Johnny shrugged, left him alone with Eli and leaned on the counter. Made a study of the fancy tins and burlap bags and white beans in mason jars. Tuned back in when he heard the storekeeper ask the kid if he was through with taking things that didn't rightly belong to him. Eli added a finger poke to the boy's shoulder at the word 'steal'.

He scuffed his boot on the floor, shifted weight onto one leg. "You done?"

Eli shoved his hands into frayed apron pockets. "Yeah, I guess."

Tim blinked once. "I'm going now, Mister. You can't make me stay." Tough little man.

"Take this." Johnny shoved a tin into the boy's hands. "Coffee isn't good without sugar." He wouldn't refuse, not now. He wanted to, raised his chin a little, met Johnny's eyes. Then nodded.

Johnny fished into his pocket for a few dollars. "Go home, all right?" He kept his voice low, but the kid shook his head to the money. "I'll be okay," he said and it twisted something inside Johnny.

The boy stumbled out the door, took off like a shot.

Eli huffed, sounded like he was bothered and long suffering. "Maybe Sweeney put him up to it. Funny what some people'd do for a dollar. Eleven years old and Alice already has her hands full with that boy. He's a bad seed, if you ask me."

Johnny didn't want to think about it, didn't want to think about where Tim was going, now or ten years from now. He checked the clock above the door. Another hour and it'd be dark.

"So what'll it be?" Eli asked.

"Murdoch needs a few more things for that big dinner he's throwin' tomorrow." He dug a list out of his front pocket. "And let me see that piece you took off the kid."

He turned it over in his hand. A bright white stone was carved into the shape of a lady's head. He rubbed a finger over her hair—real elegant, dainty even. Teresa would love it.

"It's an opal. Like I said, came all the way from St. Louis. Only one of it's kind in the store."

"You don't have to give me the particulars, Eli. It's pretty enough, I'll take it. Make a nice present for Teresa."

"You want it in a box?"

"No, just put it back in that little bag. Can't see that she'd want the box for anythin'."

Johnny rubbed a thumb across the rough planking of the counter. "So where does Sweeney live anyway?"

Eli raised an eyebrow. "Why?"

Johnny lifted a shoulder, shrugged. "Just wondering is all." He counted out his money to pay. "Seems like it would be best to avoid the man if at all possible."

#-#

He found the place easy enough, right above the smithy. Had a sour odor about it from the alleyway. Ten rickety stairs led to the mean door. Someone had put a clay pot under the window, maybe for flowers or vegetables. He could see how it would get the afternoon sun right enough, but all it held was a few straggles of brown.

Grabbed hold of the railing, took one step up. Johnny bit the inside of his mouth hard. The kid was fighting whatever or whoever had a chokehold on him. Begging, too, in his own way, for time to fix things.

Johnny could give the boy that much and hope it wasn't a mistake. He took his foot off the step, looked up and saw the lamp doused in the small window.

Music piddled its way down the street from the Gem, one tinny piano and he realized his mouth was dry as cotton. If there was any luck to be had, he'd see Sweeney in the saloon.

#-#-#-#-#

Johnny smacked away the thoughts of yesterday. The bed he was on wasn't exactly comfortable, mostly because a spring had worked loose from the cotton ticking, under his left hip. He dragged himself upright, back against the iron headboard, not much better than the mattress. Bea protested the loss of heat with a soft mewling, curled in and scrabbled the sheet and blanket over her head. He thought about whether or not to chance the cold water in the basin to wash up, but decided against it.

The window had six triangles of white frost, and it made him think of the boy with the big green eyes somehow. Let him be, he murmured to himself, and scratched under his armpit for nothing better to do. He closed his eyes and felt a ray of sun find his face through the grey gauze of curtains.

The church bell rang a second time and he just couldn't shake the thoughts loose. He slid his feet to the floor, found his pants wadded up under the bed.

#-#

The woman with her back pressed against the wall of the stage depot looked old enough to have seen too many hard times. She was thin, ruddy cheekbones sharp and high. When he got close enough, Johnny could make out her motley, threadbare coat. The top two buttons were missing and it gapped open to the chill. She grimaced, clutched at her throat with one hand and worried her neat collar like something should be there. Not finding it, she let her hand fall away and hitched up her carpetbag.

Tim huddled close to her, not nearly warm enough in the thin jacket, not with the cold and the wet left over from the rain. It struck him, and Johnny had a moment of confusion so strong he pulled himself away from the edge of the boardwalk, afraid for a second he'd fall right off.

He tipped his hat. "Mornin', Ma'am."

Hazel eyes could've been pretty if they weren't so tired looking. She slid the old bag behind her hip, kept it there with a good grip. After a loaded minute, she nodded back. "Morning."

Johnny tipped his head to the boy. "Excuse me, Ma'am, but could I talk to him?"

Startled, her eyes widened. "Tim?"

"I'm Johnny Lancer and nothing's wrong. I just want to talk."

She studied him, tried to get a read, and he felt his face redden. She unbent and relaxed back into her hunch. "You'll stay on the platform."

He and the boy walked away a few paces.

"She your mother?"

"Yeah, that's her." The words came out strangled and soft, different than they were in the store.

Johnny caught Tim looking back at Alice Sweeney. Watched her—guarding. The boy was scared all right. He could almost smell it. Johnny bent down, put his mouth close to the boy's ear. "How'd you get that?" He gestured to the half-moon purplish bruise on the boy's cheek, under the left eye. New since yesterday and it was gonna spread into a shiner.

Green eyes bolted left, and Tim shut up.

Johnny straightened. "Well, I guess it don't matter, seein' as how you're leavin'." He pushed the brim of his hat up with two fingers. "Takin' the east-bound?"

Tim nodded. "Wichita, soon enough. We got people there."

Took Johnny a minute for it to soak into his tequila-ed brain. "Soon enough?"

"We got tickets as far as Arizona." The boy went quiet, tried to dodge. "It'll work out."

Johnny moved to the side as two churchgoers hurried past in their finery, but he watched the boy out of the corner of his eye. Not there yet. But hungry, out on the street. Anybody's guess to when it would happen.

He thought about the dollar in Tim's pocket, of how they'd get on the stage and start new, how they'd get far enough away so Sweeney would never find them again. Somewhere in his gut, he knew they were all lies.

A whip cracked from outside of town. The stage swung between the bigger ruts of the street and into the depot at a spanking trot.

Tim squirmed as he looked down the twin lines of boardwalk towards the smithy, panic in his young face.

"Hey kid, hold on. Here." Johnny thrust the small blue bag into his hand.

"I can't pay. Don't have enough," he whispered, eyes as big as eggs.

Johnny pushed the bag into the Tim's pocket. "Doesn't matter." He tipped his head to the woman. "Just take care of her."

He stepped away when she called to the boy, and walked to the depot window.

A few minutes later, Dave hustled out the door, apron ties swinging. He called to the stage, "Wait up! They can't leave."

Johnny watched the color drain from Alice Sweeney's face.

She found her voice after a time, full of shiver and worry. "What's wrong?"

"There was a mistake. Those tickets are no good."

A sudden gasp and her hands were making circles in the air. "No, no…we paid good money for them."

Dave tapped his chest. "I'm the one who made the mistake, Missus. Your money's good to Wichita, not Tucson." He bobbed his head and smiled at the ground. "Aw, the company's always changin' them signs. I just misread the ticket price is all." Did a handsome salute with two fingers to his visor. "Sorry for the trouble."

Alice stared at Dave, then her white rimmed eyes darted behind him to Johnny. Her face shone in the odd half-light of the morning, and Johnny could almost see a younger woman on top of the old. Maybe what she had been before.

The clerk slammed the coach door home and waved to the driver.

Thoughts were slippery now; no sooner had he caught the edge of one than it fled. Then time stuttered. So sudden it was like being hit from behind, he remembered. Another stage depot, the smell of ash and beans, mama squeezing his hand so hard it hurt.

The stagecoach gained rhythm as it passed the last house at the edge of town, matching the roll and surge of the wheels. He watched for a while, long after it had left, tried to remember, tried to forget. Should've gone back to him, should've never left…

Dave shuttered the depot window, came outside huffing on cold fingers. "You stayin' around, Johnny? We're gonnna be closed for the rest of the day, this bein' Christmas and all. You're welcome to come to dinner."

He shook his head. He didn't want to be here. He wanted to be home.

The only trail led forward, and it smelled good.

The End

Dec 2011


	19. Of Indomitable Spirit

**No warnings. First person POV. Pre-Lancer.

Of Indomitable Spirit

We sorted them much as one would go through the week's laundry. Shirts here, pants there. Those actively bleeding here, the hopeless there. Stumbling around surgeons, attendants and ward boys, we assigned them into wards according to disability.

The armistice had been signed, but our war continued, and the ambulance convoys came. Our own veritable front line. It seemed just as the first batch was settled, the matron would put out the call to arms again. Her bellows were worthy of any Federal drill sergeant.

I wandered through my assigned ward: Twenty-three husks of men filled the room. I suffered along with them, knowing what little could be done for this hopeless lot was not enough by half. Gathering my pans and linens beside me, I clapped the ward boy on his shoulder and gave a wry smile, very much imagining myself going into battle armed with soap and clean towels. Jonas was not as optimistic, yet he tugged his water bucket and ladle up high and we marched our way to the first bed.

Vile odors assaulted our noses that my flask of rosewater couldn't assuage. Minié balls had struck the corporal, one high above the hip and one through his cheek. Both bullets had passed through leaving jagged holes in his neck and back.

He caught my sleeve, and peered at us with one dull eye. "Water…"

Like all of the wounded men, he had a raging thirst. Jonas raised the ladle, but I stayed his hand, knowing the outcome.

The corporal looked at me as if I had raised my fist and struck him.

Exhaling, I took the ladle and raised it to the soldier's lips. Sipping at first, his eye closed in ecstasy. Just as I feared, he started to lap the water and it dribbled out of his cheek. With Jonas' strong arm behind his back, the corporal heaved and wheezed, coughing out spittle and blood. With a garbled 'thankee, thankee' he fell back to his bed, sated with the few drops.

I finished changing the last of his bandages and paused. When I first stepped into the hospital three weeks ago, the matron sized me up and down, much like a review of troops, and clucked her tongue, wondering how long I would last.

I wondered, too.

Our next member was no better off. Nor the one after him. But we washed and bandaged, comforting as best we could. Before we'd gotten a third down the row, Jonas was sent for clean water and toweling.

Alone in the ward with my charges, a low moan split the air. It came from the far bed where I could see no head, but the misshapen lump in the middle of the cot told me it was occupied.

The sounds emanating from the bed were puzzling. The wounded, as a rule, were quiet. Ward Three especially so, since this was the end of their journey.

Pulling back the blanket, I found the soldier knees to chest. He was a cavalryman by the eagle buttons on his tattered coat. The hair was lengthy, his sparse beard caked with dirt and grit. I leaned in closer and saw a battalion of lice crossing his pillow. The pale face was sculpted, defined by skin stretched taut over sharp cheekbones. In the throes of a fever, he moaned and shivered, clutching at the bedclothes.

I snatched up his registry card. First Lieutenant Scott G. Lancer, 2nd U.S. Cavalry, Richmond. He'd been sorted wrongly. He didn't belong in this death ward. I called for Jonas, then for anyone within hearing distance.

Two attendants came panting through the doorway.

"What is it?" O'Brien swept his eyes around, trying to discern the urgency, for there was never any ruckus coming from Ward Three.

"This soldier needs to be moved."

The men rolled back on their heels. O'Brien shook his red head at me. "Look at' im. He'll be here soon enough."

I snapped my spine into place. "He belongs in Ward Five, not here."

He stared at me, then blew out a breath when I met his eyes, daring him to argue.

They walked to the bed and threw back the coverlet. O'Brien yanked on the soldier's coat, its seams giving way with quick pops. He bent down and grabbed a thin wrist.

"Be careful!" The lout could be brutish at times.

An unexpected growl came from the solider. "Let go of me."

As O'Brien prepared to pull, a fist shot out from the bed, glancing off the orderly's chin. The Lieutenant turned, burrowing deeper into his sheets.

I came between them and put my hand on the boy's cheek. He quieted as they often do, then looked up, his fever-bright eyes huge in the hollowed-out face. Gripping the sheets in one dirty hand, the other snaked out to cover my own.

"Please…"

I shook my head.

"...let me stay."

Knowing it was for the best, I pulled away.

He struggled, not understanding. All the soldier knew was the first bed he'd had in a very long time was about to be taken away. The matron's admonishment rang in my head: _you will not invite familiarity by using first names._ The boy's face crowded out her words.

Stroking his forearm, I broke the taboo. "Scott, quiet now, let us help you."

Jonas and I watched as the attendants bundled the officer's slight frame into the sheet and carried him out the door. My roommate, Beatrice, was working on Ward Five. He would be gently washed and given a clean bed. Despite my confidence in knowing he was in good hands, my guilt for turning him out raged.

Catching up the blanket, something colorful fell out of its brown folds. A worn yellow and blue shoulder strap. I glanced towards the door…Bea would have him under her watchful eye by now, and my patients needed me here.

Plugging up my feelings, I shoved the strap into my apron pocket.

#-#-#-#-#

Beatrice, in good favor with the matron, worked the day shift. I toiled through the night. It was no slight to me; being of a nocturnal bent, it rather suited. Nevertheless, I received daily reports from my roommate.

As soldiers always seem to do, Lieutenant Lancer inquired of Bea the whereabouts of a friend named Daniel Cassidy. We rummaged through the rolls of past and current patients, but the name was not familiar. Perhaps he'd been too ill to move.

The boy settled in, along with many of his comrades. With enough food and rest, the surgeons gave him promising reports.

I conspired to see how he was doing, but the matter was taken out of my hands when another nurse fell ill and I was re-assigned—with Bea's wonderful intervention—to Ward Five.

The hustle and bustle was something not accustomed to after spending most of my time in Ward Three. Here, coal-hods bumped against nurses and beds as young boys carried them through the wards. Surgeons rounded, calling from behind the mosquito netting for fresh bandaging and tinctures of laudanum or morphine.

Rising above all was the cacophony of the living.

Lieutenant Lancer was in bed twenty-four. As Bea reported, he no longer needed help to feed himself, doing nicely with the diet of farina and toast. He was shaven, head to chin, and put in a too-large hospital tunic. Propped up against the headboard, he looked like a baby owl peeking out of its nest.

The fever had dissipated, a healthier hue erasing some of the paleness. I approached his bed with some trepidation, holding the evening tray in front of me as a talisman to ward off any disparaging looks. He turned at my advance and I could see him trying to put thoughts in order.

His brow wrinkled in puzzlement until a fine blush crept across his cheeks. I put the tray down and hesitated.

"I apologize, Miss…" He rubbed his hand back and forth over his shaven head. "I didn't realize…"

These men struggled to cast off any surmised weakness, and this boy was no exception. I smiled. "It's of no consequence. You were just in the wrong place."

"It seems as though that very thing has been a harbinger for my military career."

My owl had wit.

I busied myself with his tray. "You have an extraordinary right punch. At least Mr. O'Brien thinks so."

His eyes widened.

Flapping out the napkin, I placed it under his chin and pressed a spoon into his palm. "And if you hadn't of done the deed, I most certainly would have."

A cautious smile made its way to his lips.

#-#-#-#-#

The best time for writing home was after the evening meal. It helped to spend time with pen and paper. Solid black scribbles, some unrecognizable, but nonetheless written to someone they called their _own_.

And my owl? The very same.

I asked who he was writing to and was met with silence as he concentrated on the task, his hand quivering over a bold scrawl.

Ever curious, I prodded. "A mother?"

He shook his head.

"A father, then."

He blinked. "My grandfather."

His hand meandered to the paper's edge, the pen teetered, then fell. Practiced in such exercises, I caught it before it tumbled to the floor, and gave him a pat on his trembling arm.

Then we sat with heads together—one telling, the other writing—transcribing thoughts and salutations. The faraway grandfather would hear of better tidings, the welcoming of cooler climes and nourishing food. And, even though I hesitated to write it myself, the ministrations of a kind nurse. The news he _wouldn't_ receive in the missive could fill many other pages.

But soon enough this grandfather would see what wasn't written in black and white.

Spent, he lay back upon the pillow and closed his shadowed eyes. The pen was tucked away amongst other things in my apron pocket: a strip of bandage, two buttons, a spoon, a well-read letter from my sister, rosewater and quinine tablets. A motley mix which gave me as much comfort through the night as I supposed clean bedding did to these boys.

I turned to lower the light and felt his eyes, watching. Nodding to him, the wick was left at its usual height. We had a closeted agreement the Lieutenant and I—the lantern would burn until my rounds were finished.

Despite the matron's firm orders to the contrary.

#-#-#-#-#

Melancholia rose through the ranks at night, heralding a portent of unease among both nurses and patients. Ward Five was no exception. What was pushed aside and forgotten during the light of day could not be ignored in the dark of night.

Fevers heretofore suppressed during much of the day, ran unchecked. Pain, no matter how minor, made its appearance as well. Night terrors were shared alike.

The ward had quieted from the day's activities and the lamps turned down. I could identify my patients by the sounds they made in darkness. Major Jacoby's sonorous wheeze, Sergeant May's loud treble on exhalation. The Lieutenant's soft sighs.

Mosquito netting was pulled around the majority of beds by evening and Jonas offered to help me with the rest.

He walked to Lieutenant Lancer's bed and jerked the mesh. Frayed, it pulled away from the ceiling hooks and tumbled down, encasing the patient.

Startled out of a deep sleep, the Lieutenant woke up fighting. In his excitement, Jonas flung himself over the bed to keep the patient still.

Disturbed by the scuffle, patients from across the room shouted for help, a few thumping their way on crutches to the middle of the ward—ready for battle.

And I was left fumbling with the lamp.

It was the matron who put an end to the chaos. Armed with a roar and several attendants, Jonas was picked up, patients soothed and bedclothes re-arranged. After questioning my abilities to handle the ward by myself, she left in a swish of skirts and petticoats.

The incident with the netting affected him. Remembering his registry card on admission, I knew what 'Richmond' meant.

I washed the sheen of sweat from his face and back, then sat with him. Listening.

His rank was a battlefield commission after a brief period of enlistment, pinned on by Phillip Henry Sheridan himself. The shoulder strap lying in the reticule in my room came to mind. It needed to be returned.

He took pride in his soldiering and had seen the elephant, until the time of his capture. He spoke of his imprisonment in passing, much like describing a recent countryside trip. The words were too smooth, I had to believe there was something more—there was terror in his eyes when the netting fell.

I offered him water and waited. An escape attempt. A tunnel collapse. He bent his left leg at the knee and rubbed his thigh. I knew a puckered scar lay there, formed by a bullet. Sighing, he turned his head away.

Not yet twenty, he had lived a whole life already.

How many bedsides have I sat, able to offer nothing but a cool cloth or a gentle hand or merely to lend an ear? My head full, I wondered of my real value to Lieutenant Lancer, to all the patients of Ward Five.

He was silent, his voice replaced by a light snore. I lowered the wick and allowed my nagging tears to fall in private.

#-#-#-#-#

His bed was empty. We frequently played a round of 'Where's the Lieutenant' in the early evening hours. Not an unusual occurrence, since he had gained a small measure of mobility. His favorite haunt was beside the far window, looking out. Noticing Major Grady's wheelchair was missing, but the man was still abed, I knew it contained the Lieutenant. But where? And where was Jonas?

Something was amiss last night; he was restive, not eating. It was worrisome. I pushed the letter from Boston into my pocket and went in search.

The venues of choice for the Richmond men were the stone wall by the well, beside the horse barn or the shady spot under the oaks. I chose the oaks. It was the furthest away from the wards.

Before I could get to the hallway, Jonas met me at the door. The ward boy ducked his head.

"He's worse, Miss."

Dismayed, I saw the Lieutenant's pallor and racking shivers despite the blankets on this warm day. Ague.

Three men filed behind the chair. "It wasn't his fault," the soldier said, nodding to Jonas, "the Lieutenant was readin' to us outside." He waved a water-stained copy of Thoreau in the air. "We didn't think it would hurt any."

They never should have taken him out—wasn't he starting to get ill last night? I bit my tongue. My temper was short these days and a struggle to keep maintained. I took a deep breath and led the group back to bed, reaching for the quinine in my pocket. The letter from home would have to wait.

At first he was restless, unable to get comfortable. I endeavored to calm him, but his fever raged. Tossing his head, incessant yells to go forward, then a single aching 'retreat'. He grabbed my arm, almost tumbling me into the bed. An attendant intervened with strips of cloth, wanting to tie him, but I refused.

Toward morning, he quieted, but the fever and chills had sapped his strength. I heard a tapping and one of the three men from the oaks appeared out of the shadows of the ward.

"How is he, Miss?"

I shook my head.

He slumped on his crutches. "We wanted to hear the words, pretty like they are. Thought it would perk up the Lieutenant some, too…it's been such a long time since he was outside."

My breath caught. He was in the throes of guilt, burning with it just as hot as my patient. I looked down at the Lieutenant, still flushed from the bitter fight—they asked for nothing. Who was I to condemn their actions? They looked to me for help, to relieve their sufferings—not compound them. My lack of ability was appalling.

At four o'clock, the matron entered the ward on her rounds. "The Lieutenant?"

"He is no better."

"You've lost hope, then." Her voice was soft—kind—unlike anything I'd heard her use before.

"I fear he won't survive."

"My dear…"

I dared to interrupt. "What good are we to these men?"

The matron drew herself up. "Your actions may seem petty, but I assure you they are not. A basin and soap, a few rags. We go from one sufferer to another alleviating pain, changing an uneasy position, allaying thirst or bandaging wounds. Is that trivial to these soldiers who have had so little for so long? These men have not given up…why have you?"

The mild rebuke brought order to my thoughts.

She glanced down at my patient and patted his lax hand. "If it should come to pass that God calls this young man forward, you'll know you've done everything in your power to aid his comfort."

The matron turned to me. "You've cared for him, and hundreds of others, as if they were your own family. They are the better for it. I've no higher praise than that."

She paused at the door and turned around. "You'll do, Miss." Nodding, she walked out.

I sat in the gloom, listening to the muted sounds of the ward, and contemplated her few words.

The Lieutenant shifted and sighed beside me. I pulled the coverlet up higher on his chest, letting my hand linger. His breaths were even, his face relaxed.

Searching within, I found my heart lightened. Perhaps we would both 'do'.

#-#-#-#-#

It was June and I was a three-month nurse, Bea an old veteran of nine. We celebrated our anniversaries with tea and toast at the small desk in the center of our ward. Private Johansson presented us each with a wilted daisy, made precious by the fact he had crutched out to the stone wall to retrieve them. His stump almost healed, he would be discharged back to his wife soon. A harmonica was produced by the drummer boy from Ohio—a month ago he couldn't catch enough breath to talk. A gay tune issued forth and our men clapped or nodded as able.

I looked at Bea and saw my weariness mirrored in her eyes. As I glanced about the ward, I knew we had done some good, and it raised my spirits.

We would have continued on through the night, if not for the matron and her stern throat clearing from the doorway. Bea bid us a swift goodnight with a promise to return in the morning. I caught my owl's eye and winked at him.

He returned it with a grin.

#-#-#-#-#

The surgeons thumped his chest and listened to his heart. Despite being able to count almost every rib, they declared him fit for travel—and I agreed. He would need respite for a long while. But better in the arms of family than the beds of the hospital amongst strangers.

Although after all this time we were hardly strangers to one another.

He pushed off from his chair using a cane, and straightened to his full height, towering over me. It was disconcerting to realize how tall he was after only seeing him horizontal.

The laundered blue tunic was more patches than uniform, but serviceable. I assumed his grandfather would welcome him home regardless of the state of his dress. But this coat was missing one item.

I searched though my pocket of bottles and bandages, pulling out the shoulder strap.

Surprised, he fingered it for a bit, rubbing the threaded gold bars between thumb and forefinger. Then passed it back to me. Smiling, I gestured for him to bend down. The strap was fastened to his coat and Lieutenant Scott Lancer, 2nd Cavalry, emerged.

Something hot pricked behind my eyes when he clasped my hand. In his fevered state, those hands fisted and grabbed, pushed and pulled. Now they were warm and gentle—and would be strong again.

We fought the battle for his convalescence together, and the truth was he had done as much for me as I did for him. My path of duty, chosen on a whim, had taken on greater significance.

There were patients injured far more severe, pathetic wretches that made my heart crack. A myriad of faces, with an ocean of voices in supplication. But this young man will be the one I remember.

The call went up, the convoys were leaving. He bent down and brushed my cheek, murmuring a simple thank-you into my ear. I watched from the doorway as he was helped into the wagon, then turned and gathered my basins and water.

My patients needed me.

The End

05/06/10

Revised: 3/2/2012

Author's Notes:

"Of Indomitable Spirit" was a phrase often used to describe Clara Barton, a Civil War nurse and founder of the American Red Cross (1881).

A nod goes to Louisa May Alcott's "Civil War Hospital Sketches" for the idea of this story


	20. Victress

** Warnings: None. This story is a follow-on to one I wrote several years ago called 'Of Indomitable Spirit' (OIS). It may be best to read that first, but this should work as a stand-alone piece. First person POV. Pre-Lancer.

Victress

The blank pages mocked me. How would I ever begin? With mangled limbs and lice? Disease and dirt? Boiled dressings?

It was difficult to envision the male students at Toland Medical College sitting down with bated breath to listen to my treatise on battlefield nursing. Yet Dean Cole was very adamant his fledglings garner some knowledge on the subject from an experienced source. I was here to not only speak for the nurses who cared for the men and boys during wartime, but to argue for a proper program of nursing. Bea should have been chosen from our school to attend this duty except her confinement had left her at hearth and home instead of San Francisco. I thought she had planned it rather well and told her so before Rob and I left for the station and our ipso facto journey west.

I tapped my quill against the ink pot. How would I write about the groans of the wounded, the utter stillness of the dying? The smell of clotted blood?

The matron's bellows echoed with startling clarity: _Begin at the beginning!_ A task easier said than accomplished. Although memories remained quite vivid even as the years passed, the days before the war had simply ceased to exist for me. Much like the patients I cared for, I was not the same person as when I began.

Perhaps the words would come after a bit of fresh air. I turned down the lamp and tiptoed out of our hotel room.

Rob, abed in his sheets, would chide me for going out alone in a strange city. The complaint held no rancor, it had grown to become a game between the two of us. I was obligated to walk out my thoughts, he was obligated to voice his concerns. He waited for me to come back with the peace of a man who knew exactly who he married. And he knew me to be unsettled on this trip.

My melancholia struck at the oddest of times. Whether looking out my kitchen window on a cold, snowy Pennsylvania evening, or breathing the salt-tinged ocean air in spring, it seemed lately that it was never too far behind. I felt so much loss at times, as if my heart beat outside my body. Preparing for the lecture had added kindling to the banked coals.

It was too warm for my Spencer, but the old coat served as a type of armor and I was loathe to leave it behind, despite the vagaries of San Francisco weather. Used to large cities and their tendency to make the common person somewhat invisible, I nonetheless felt rather _uncommon_ , disturbing shopkeepers along the boardwalk who were sweeping out their storefronts to make ready for the day, a few morning laborers shouting over horses and lumber. A dog riding a bicycle would garner less looks. Did no one walk in this city? Perhaps Rob was right after all, but I didn't alter my direction.

The waterfront was my destination, and my blessedly empty bench. A much maligned thing of nicks, scratches and rough knots, it was discovered by delightful happenstance upon a walk three days earlier. It was mine from the minute I saw it, and the views of the bay with its tumbling blues and greys.

A few minutes passed in sitting before I realized I wasn't alone.

There were more bald patches than fur on the creature. A scar ran from its nose all the way around its left ear. If the proverb was true about cats having nine lives, this one had clearly worked its way through six or seven already. It cautiously jumped up and sat imperiously beside me, busying itself trying to lick one eye. Another wounded veteran.

The seals playing in the water caught its attention. The cat watched their every move as I sat in vain trying to find the words.

Seemingly bored after a while, it walked to the end of the bench, looked back at me in a most skeptical manner and leaped off.

I watched the cat as it strolled down the boardwalk.

It found a young man standing outside a storefront, perusing a glass showcase and threw itself at his legs. I held my breath as I could easily see life number eight flittering away.

He surprised me by bending at the waist and scratching it behind the ears. Satisfied the creature had found a new protector, I started to turn away. He straightened, taking off his hat and raking his fingers through his hair. Something was most familiar about his carriage and angular face.

Time skipped a beat, between one second and the next. _My owl._

Thoughts hop-scotched their way back to the shabby hospital and the boy who had been sorted wrongly. Did the puckered scar on his thigh cause him discomfort? Was he still affected by raging fevers from the ague?

Our eyes met, he cocked his head in a quicksilver of uncertainness.

Two men hailed him from the store, one very tall and graying, the second colorfully out of place in the bleakness of the morning. Ignoring both of them, his eyebrows arched upwards in surprise.

He was reed thin but filled out, sturdy. Satisfyingly healthy. He strode towards me and sank to the bench with a whisper of pleased shock as if he didn't know whether to touch my arm or talk.

I was overwhelmed. For far too many nights I wondered how he was doing after discharge, if his recovery was in good speed.

His companions caught up and stared at the both of us, clearly not understanding what had just filled the air like the scent of cut flowers. The older man wore a puzzled frown. The younger more hesitant, wary. They were so different, yet obviously belonged together. There was a story there, perhaps part of the reason he had journeyed so far from Boston, but for now I turned my attention to the soldier before me.

"Your hair has grown lengthy, Lieutenant." He still blushed quite nicely.

With a thin smile he leaned forward and clasped my hand. "Murdoch, Johnny…I don't believe I ever told you the story of my nurse."

My heart gave a bump. Something shifted in me and my melancholia drifted away with the sincerity in his deep voice.

It was then I knew my lecture would not be comprised of day to day nursing minutiae but centered on the capacity of men—and women—to overcome. Former Lieutenant Scott G. Lancer, Cavalry, was a stark reminder of that. Surely I could do no less.

Taking a deep breath of clean ocean air, I found I could begin again.

The End

/2014

Author's Notes:

Toland Medical College was affiliated with the University of California in its early days having combined in 1873 to form Medical Department of the University of California. R. Beverly Cole was the Dean at the time. Sadly, they didn't add a nursing program until 1907 when it offered a diploma program. That being said, its first female graduate of medicine was in 1876.

The first nursing school in America was the Bellevue School of Nursing in 1873, following along the principles set by Florence Nightingale.

Nurses' Week is May 6-12!


	21. Pintura Fresca

**Warnings: None. Backstory: The title came from a sign at work one day, lol.

Pintura Fresca

Johnny's thoughts were full of foolish wishes and futile regrets, like a child forgotten at Christmas. The kitten stirred against his fingers, pushing its head into his palm. Black and white paws skittered over his arm, jostling the knife he held. She slipped into the upturned crown of his hat and settled.

"Looks like you have a friend." Scott strode into the barn, taking off his own hat and shaking out his coat. "I know Murdoch says it never really gets cold here, but I think we may see a frost or two before December is over. Right now? Well, I'm happy enough to get out of the fog and wet." He stopped just short and peered at the kitten.

She wasn't impressed. Giving a muffled meow, she lifted her head and stared back. Scott smiled-a full toothy grin—and dipped his finger down. Right away she batted and dodged, rolling over to show a wriggling white belly.

His brother's grin grew larger. "Feisty, eh?" He rubbed her until the kitten purred with contentment. Tiring of the game, she rose to make one turn, then another, before finally curling into the black crown.

Putting his hat down on the bench, Scott turned his attention to the wood in Johnny's hands. "What have you got there?"

Johnny trailed a finger over the velvet nose of his furry charge. "El nacimiento."

"A nac…? A what?"

Irritation rose. Gringo. "El nacimiento, a nativity scene." He held up the figurine. "This is La Guadalupana."

"Wait, I know this one, Virgin of Guadalupe, right? The Virgin Mary."

At Johnny's sharp look, his brother colored a bit. "Maria's doing. And some from Teresa and Cipriano as well. It's slow going; I still cross my Latin and French."

Guilt tried to stare him down. Scott _was_ trying, and with everyone's help-except his.

Scott reached over to take the figure. The piece looked small in his hand, almost insignificant. "She's carved in the round." He traced the brilliant red and deep brown lines in the olive wood. "This mark here, it looks like a flower of some sort."

Feeling foolish, Johnny took the figure back. "It's nothing."

"My mistake." Scott picked up the second piece. "And Joseph, too."

"It's just a few simple things."

"You're very good."

Something pricked his bubble of solitude. "There was time whenever I found myself in camp. Some long nights-they left too much time for thinkin'. So I made things instead."

And there it was: an inhaled breath and that faraway look on Scott's face. It was one Johnny had seen a few times before, but doubted if Murdoch ever had. It made him think his brother had a few secrets of his own. He looked away from Scott to the piece of wood in his hands.

"What else have you got there?" Scott asked.

"Nothing."

"Blast it, Johnny…" With a quick sidestep Scott darted past and swept up the house made of wood and bark. "You made a manger?"

"It's rough." Johnny shrugged. "Could use a little sanding and paint."

"Need some help?"

The hole in Johnny's bubble closed back up. "No, this is pretty much a one man job here."

Scott seemed to deflate a little. "All right. Just don't be too long, Murdoch won't wait dinner." He took his hat from the bench and flicked the kitten's ear. She gave a half-hearted swipe at his finger, blinking with sleep. Then he turned to walk away.

"Scott…that flower…it's supposed to be a rose. For how beautiful she is…and the birth and all." He broke off, uncomfortable. "It seemed right, anyway."

Scott stared then nodded, his fingers making their way around the brim of his hat. Johnny knew he understood.

Fighting was the easy way out. Staying and sinking roots was a hell of a lot harder. Maybe there was room at the inn after all. With a brother.

Johnny held up the manger. "How about helping me out?" He dipped his head. "It needs some sprucin' up, maybe some fresh paint."

~End~

Dec '09


	22. Echoes and Ripples

**The "Legacy" episode left a lot of questions for me, number one on the list: why did Harlan act the way he did? Here's one possible scenario.

Echoes and Ripples

Maybe Murdoch ought to have cared more than he did about the replacement for the old outbuilding, but Scott was in control and looking at the post holes they'd dug, the foundations already laid out in precision, the mounds of wood waiting nearby, and he was mentally taking notes, nodding his head. For a moment Murdoch felt a strange pride that he had caused this to happen. That his decision—however late—had given Lancer back the its first-born, such a capable man. He swallowed hard and looked away to the far line of cottonwoods. The head bandage was gone, thankfully. It was bad enough Scott bore a visible wound from his grandfather's ill-advised visit, advertising it with lily-white gauze had bordered on the obscene and served as a daily reminder: so much could go wrong in so little a time.

Yet, just as Murdoch thought the storm had passed, here was another in the form of a large envelope from Boston, care of Harlan Garrett. Oddly enough, it was addressed to him and not Scott. He had half a mind to slide it into an unused drawer. Or the fire. But just half, the other side argued bitterly that enough damage had been done by leaving the past alone.

He turned away from the window and poured two fingers of Glen Ord. Then, and only then did he reach for the envelope because nothing from Garrett Enterprises was worth opening entirely sober.

A section of stained yellowed paper, torn on the right edge and creased, tumbled out.

 _Headquarters  
2nd Brigade  
2nd Division  
Fairfax County, Virginia _

_March 15th 1864.  
Harlan Garrett Esq._

 _Dear Sir,  
It is with most painful feeling that I sit down to impart to you the sad tidings that Scott has fallen. Those at the battlefield reveal he was instantly killed by the explosion of a shell. I can truly say that we have met a loss that every member of this company feels deeply. He was universally esteemed by both officers and men possessing the confidence of all. The postal clerk is at my door now so I have time to write no more. Yours Truly, C.C. Spencer._

A heaviness roped around his chest like a wide lasso and he tried to find the breath that had fled after the first sentence. The idea of Scott being dead sat like a stump, dull and useless, and Murdoch couldn't think beyond it.

A second letter from the same division was dated almost three weeks later, apologizing for the 'egregious blunder' and informing Harlan that Scott was found to be a prisoner of the Confederates. The third and fourth letters were from his son's comrades, dated from his supposed death.

Harlan's thready voice came back with the blunt force of a hammer: "I won't offer an apology for what I wanted to do, only for how I tried to do it."

After his apology-not apology, Harlan had stood there in the great room, a full still look on his face and in his eyes, no words, nothing in him except one thing and Murdoch saw it plainly. Harlan cared. Cared more than Murdoch could have dreamed of, and it didn't make anything better.

It was more than a promised legacy, the old man was hiding behind grand words and gestures and Murdoch was tired of the games. But the truth was so much more than he could bear and this was what Scott had been protecting him from.

Harlan was afraid of losing Scott. Again.

The wooden floor creaked and he realized he'd shut his eyes because it was an effort to open them again with all the grit there. When he did, Scott was leaning against the doorframe. He didn't say anything, not at first, and neither did Scott.

A wry grin etched across the impossibly lean face. "Something wrong?"

With a brisk motion of his hand, Murdoch was up, shoving the letters at his son like they were hot. He took a piece of wood from the old coal scuttle sitting on the tiles beside the hearth and threw it in, adjusting the log with a blackened poker. Stalling for a few moments to collect himself.

Scott's attention was out the window when Murdoch turned, eyes steady on the horizon. "Quite a beautiful day." It wasn't the sort of observation his son made often.

Murdoch couldn't look at him, the absurd notion of being declared dead then not playing into it, a blunder that went above and beyond egregious. Would he have reacted any differently than Harlan? "Sort of day that makes you glad to be alive," he tested and heard the breath Scott took.

"Yes. Indeed. It does make you glad to be alive."

Murdoch did look then, and watched as Scott placed the letters one by one back into the envelope, closed the seal and slid it across the desk.

The End

12/14

A/N: The title is paraphrased from a line in Walt Whitman's _Song of Myself_


	23. Mending Walls

**No warnings. One of my favorite pieces.

Mending Walls

Morro Coyo turned a red-rimmed eye to the rising sun and muttered under its breath. Shadows had left the bottoms of storefronts by the time grumbles turned into quiet sighs over coffee—tequila dregs for some—and breakfast eggs to settle empty stomachs. Only then did the town reluctantly pull on its boots, rolling over to greet the day.

Benito Abreo Morado long lay awake in his nest of straw cocooned within a thin blanket, listening to the burgeoning creaks and moans of morning. It had been said many times that listening was the only thing he was good for in his life. The smell of fried buñuelos made his stomach rumble. Cinnamon and slender hands came to mind with such a force that he had to catch his breath. Always she had scolded him to let them cool beside the pot, always he had burned his tongue.

A mission bell pealed twice, signaling Lauds, but the horses dozed without concern. The saints and martyrs looked down at him with their solemn frowns from the bench above his head. Get up! Get up, they said. He sat, waiting for his spine to fall into place with each crick of tired bone. The Benedictus sprang to his lips and he repeated the words in a soft whisper. When he opened his eyes, the Señora de Guadalupe, wrapped in precious red linen, was staring at him, and Benito said an additional novena. He tried to count the days he'd been away, puzzling with great numbers before giving up. But soon. Soon the saints would point the way home.

Throwing off the blanket, he grasped the bench and heaved himself upwards, sending them tipping to and fro. The room swam before his eyes, making him hesitate before shoving feet into sandals without ties.

He gathered the figures and wrapped them in soft cloths to put into his leather bag. With the blanket tucked under one arm, he scratched each horse under the chin, saving his gentlest pats for the spotted mare on the end. It had been her company he held the longest, so she was favored. Biting his lower lip to distract himself from the pains in his legs and back, Benito walked out the back door to the alley before the stable's owner could complain.

~o~o~o~

Scott Lancer rode into a cacophony of slamming doors, the slap of brooms across wooden boardwalks, the huff and whoosh of a forge being fired up. Hungry, too, but not for eggs or tortillas. He was awoken at the murderous hour of three o'clock for no better reason than to catch his breath from the tail end of a dream. It had faded as soon as his eyes opened, leaving only traces of vivid whites, reds and yellows, jumbled amongst a queasy feeling of anticipation.

For now he would settle on a newspaper.

Preferably the Morning Chronicle out of San Francisco since the Boston Herald was two thousand miles away. Even the Sacramento Bee would do, although he'd have to sift through the liberal news lambasting Grant. Knowing sugar was traded at four cents more than last month, or the Central Pacific finally connected Sacramento to the Bay made the ranch seem less of a lone outpost.

He left his horse at the railing. The Alahambra saloon was the venue of choice, the veritable hub of town, but it was closed until noon. A short respite between breakfast and lunch that allowed its mescal-soaked denizens to come out of the fog just long enough to realize they were approaching an alarming state of sobriety before gratefully tipping their bottles back again.

Weighing his options, Scott looked down the street and saw Señor Baldemerro unlocking the mercantile. He remembered he wanted to ask the storeowner something. The idea had been buried under an avalanche of learning how cattle and cowboys work, but now there was time, albeit little enough, for it to come to the forefront. He knew a bit about stone walls, had spent enough summers balanced on their long spines to know a good one from a bad one. Still, he needed someone with real knowledge.

He stepped off the boardwalk and started across the roadway when he saw out of the corner of his eye a flash of dark brown. A man came from the alleyway. His walk was hunched, right hand planted alongside the wall of the building next to him, scuffing along, one stuttering step at a time. It was a walk of a man unacquainted with his feet. The bag under his left arm had swung to his front, knocking against his thigh. Probably drunk—and too early—the cantina wouldn't open for another few hours. Scott angled away, surprised at the disheartenment sitting in the pit of his stomach like a brick.

To the casual observer, the mercantile was an explosion of color and shiny new things to be ooh-ed and ah-ed over while placing your order for the requisite three yards of brown calico and bag of flour. Scott found his mood lifting. He stopped at the hat stand, just out of sight of the counter, and fingered the brim of what he now knew to be a Panhandle Slim. Only for card sharps and pitch men, Señor Baldemerro's wife had warned the first time he'd picked one up. The hat did have a rakish flair with its beaded band, but to be confused with a card sharp—an eastern one at that—well, it wouldn't be the thing. He could just envision the look on his father's face.

He hadn't been back to the store since what was referred to now as "the incident". He couldn't recall ever being pummeled so hard, without provocation anyway. Although he was inclined to dismiss it outright, it did raise his awareness: wearing the Lancer name was akin to being the apple in the old William Tell legend, with crossbows sighted.

He looked up when Señor Baldemerro cleared his throat.

"Buenos días, Mr. Lancer. You're here early." The storeowner glanced anxiously at him, then to the doorway as if he expected the other pugilistic two-thirds to come through. They wouldn't. Coley and his partner were long buried. They shook hands and discussed Lancer and the weather, trading poor Spanish for poor English, until Scott was ready to ask.

"Señor, I wanted to see if you had a newspaper. Anyone would do." And he told part of the story about wanting to know what else was going on in the world—what the New York stock exchange was doing and the newest political news—everything.

"I don't understand," Baldemerro said with conviction and a shrug, but after a few moments, he ah-hahed enthusiastically and turned away to a back shelf. Shifting a few jars of canned vegetables to the side, he peeled off the shelf lining.

The Morning Chronicle was serving a new purpose in its short life. Scott flicked the dirt from the rings the jar bottoms had left and pieced together the top. It was from six months ago, before he had even arrived at the ranch. He waggled his fingers. "It's all right. Doesn't matter." He felt slightly foolish for making the request in the first place. "Do you know of anyone who…"

There was a shuffling noise outside.

Baldemerro looked up quickly and frowned. "No more, Benito, I have no work."

Scott looked at the strange little man, still hunched and hesitant, his lean face pitted beneath a growth of grey beard. He saw so much pain there, he had to turn away.

"You feed one and three more show up, like rats," Baldemerro said, after the man had left. "But there is something wrong with that one. Anything more, Señor?"

The question he was about to ask drifted away with his good mood. It was an impulse—a whimsy—and no one would be the wiser if it was dropped, so he shook his head. A few steps into the street and he turned, seeing the old man sitting on the boardwalk. What Benito was doing was compelling enough to watch.

He reached into his bag and pulled out a small bundle. His fingers brushed his forehead then down to his chest, up to the shoulder, first left than right. Finally he opened the cloth, and that seemed to satisfy him, his mouth moving. Benito's face was expressionless, but the man's voice sounded tight with his wordless croon. He finished and rewrapped the cloth, storing it back into the bag.

Scott peered down at Benito. "Pretty day, going to be hot soon."

Benito looked up and shook his head. Scott sighed. Pulling the right Spanish from the closet in his mind was much easier after listening to it all day long. Funny how the swear words he had picked up from the work crew came right to the forefront.

"It started out nice, but it's not looking so good now," Scott continued, a bit of testiness creeping into his voice. One of these days he'd take a ride to San Francisco, see a proper city again. He missed the sounds, the chance to lose oneself in the bustle of city life without a care.

But today was not the day. The old man, head in hand, slumped back against the wooden strut. How old was he? Sixty? Seventy? Ragged clothes bought or stolen, layers of cotton tick and linen. Beaten sandals. Probably hungry.

Scott pulled out his watch, checked the time. Another hour and he was supposed to be working with his brother in the north pasture. Yet this poor man was dancing on the edge of oblivion, and he couldn't quite bring himself not to care.

He spoke, in achingly slow Spanish, "How about some coffee? I could certainly use another cup." He reached out his hand to help the old man up and Benito studied it with interest. The pink calluses across the palm, a new scar at the base of the thumb, and the dirt still wedged under his nails. Something shifted in the old man's clear eyes and he placed his warm hand into Scott's.

~o~o~o~

Morning sunlight so flooded the hacienda kitchen that it took on the quality of fire, heating the air. Murdoch's fine stubble glinted with specks of red, his graying hair stood high on his head, bathed in yellow. Time was a relative thing, passing too fast or too slow for some people, but it seemed to have stopped moving at the hacienda altogether.

But as Murdoch saw it, there was no possible virtue in standing still.

He got up from his chair and opened the door for some air. California grit wafted in with the breeze and clung to his teeth, vying for a place beside his burnt tongue. Burnt because he couldn't wait for the coffee to cool. Awakening in the dark, he had found it on the stove. Even more surprised to find the pot still hot. With a house of three, it was easy to narrow down the culprit and Johnny and Teresa's doors were still been closed.

Without a doubt, Scott was Catherine's son, but there were hard angles where she was soft. Maybe it was the formality built up over years of city living. Maybe it was something else. A niggle of doubt crept in where there wasn't any before: maybe he'd never understand the boy.

In the distance, twenty-odd cattle milled about, snuffling grass in a large patch of green the high riders had left alone in their ravages across his land. The boys must have rounded them up to graze while he'd been to the neighbor's.

He had to stop—they weren't really boys were they?

He felt heavy, out of place. Something had shifted. Until this point it had been rote. Not easy, but weightless almost. Everything was flying up, pinging around in his skull, buzzing like a bee in the marigolds. There'd been the fallout from Pardee and enough distractions to keep him occupied. Johnny's fever. Burying the dead. Assessing the losses. Talking to the bank. He knew how many had died for Lancer, but didn't reckon on the wide swath of estancia widows who needed visiting. And after the bandages and the talks and the weeping, Murdoch was finally alone.

Only really not alone.

It was puzzling. For months Murdoch had been fighting a battle, listening for the click of a trigger or shouted alarm. But now the danger was past, the rest of his life yawned before him. He stumbled about the ranch for the first time, listening to odd voices, to the house settle and creak, readjusting itself.

The veranda's half walls were strewed about, lying in small puddles of rubble. He'd loved it once. Taught himself how to set the stones, as a surprise for Catherine. He rebuilt now it in front of him with his eyes: the darker layer of granite on the left, the curious tilt of rock over the uneven spot on the far right, the rounded capstones. It reminded him of something—some memory, not of the building so many years ago, but farther back as to the why. He picked and sifted thoughts until the picture came fully alive.

 _He felt the long grasses under his feet, the burn of Inbhir Nis' salt air. He saw himself as a little boy, his hand lost in Aidan's great calloused one. His brother always attracted attention—trouble, luck, danger, desire—and Murdoch was happy to have Aidan home again, all to himself. The trip was a simple affair of following the Mackenzie's stone wall, walking past lowing milk cows and green pastures, into town._

 _Two men came from the tall brush. In his mind, he could hear his brother saying, "It's me you want, you'll not hurt him." Murdoch looked up; saw the dark men and their ragged sneers. The flash of something silver as they came closer. His heart caught in his throat, beating a muffled roar through his head._

 _Dirty hands scrabbled at his jacket. Aidan pulled him away, shoved him into the wall. He ducked into a niche, scraping his cheek, and cupped his hands around his ears against the curses. Then he was crushed against his brother's heaving chest, caught in the folds of Aidan's leather coat that smelled of tobacco smoke. He was shushing him, and Murdoch batted his hand away._

 _He pulled other thoughts, stretched them out like caramel candy before him: Aidan's face so white it was almost blue, the safety of the hard stones behind his back._

 _"I saw them, Aidan."_

 _"And even more I thank God they're gone, as this is my fault. Are you all right?"_

 _"What did they want?"_

 _"You're too young to know of such things. And I'm long a fool. I'll tell you when you're older. Are you sure you're all right? We'll wait here for a bit, the stones are warm. Feel them."_

 _They sank against the wall. He felt a rounded knob of stone, smooth and solid in his small hand. It was strong and good, it would protect them. Clenching Aidan's arm with the other hand, the strong cords of muscle underneath the leather were taut and trembling._

 _"With their black eyes and wailing, they reminded me of Father's story about Black Donald."_

 _Aidan looked at him fully. "They weren't devils, Murdoch, just men. Hush, now. There'll be no more storytelling, here or home. We'll get the things for Ma, maybe stop at Jamieson's for a sweetie drink."_

 _"Butter biscuits, too, Aidan?"_

 _"Yes, but no more. You'll quit your begging now."_

He'd forgotten the why all this time—until the walls were gone, just like Aidan. He shook his head; it was foolish for a man to keep hold of memories.

"Hell of a way to keep things out."

Murdoch twisted around and swallowed the first words that rose to his throat, and ended up stuttering out a question, "Where did you come from?"

There was mirth in Johnny's eyes. "Didn't mean to cut in, wasn't sneaking up or anythin'."

"Those walls were made before you and Scott were born."

A shadow fell across him as Johnny came to stand close. "That old, huh?"

"The rubble will need to be taken away."

"You sure about that? It seemed like you were pretty intent on those bricks. Pretty ugly now, though."

The words hit home as surely as though bullets had been fired. "It didn't used to be."

"Do you want me to start a couple of the men on it?"

"After the haying is done," Murdoch swiped his hand across stubble, "it can wait until then." The past—bad or good—was gone. Maybe changes were needed. He honored the truth, even when it hurt. "What would you do with it?"

Johnny moaned. "That's like setting me up to an inside straight, Murdoch. There's no way I can bet on that and come out ahead."

"I'm asking. Maybe I'm a fool for trying to keep it the way it was."

"Murdoch, are you mad?"

"No. So tell me, what would you do?"

He heard some shuffling, a soft sigh. "I guess I'd clear it out. Leave it open for a while. Those half walls weren't good for anything. Too high to set stuff on, too low to keep the sun and other things out."

There was a volley of hoof beats. Johnny's hand went to his belt, tugged on the leather. "That's probably Scott, I'd better get going. We'll be back in time for dinner."

Murdoch watched him go. He'd asked for an honest opinion, got it in spades. His eyes wandered back out to the loose stones.

~o~o~o~

Some days were so straightforward he could see the end result before he even began. For a man who lived hour to hour at times, there was comfort in that. Johnny had never questioned the before, it just was. Now there was time. Even though he couldn't see the end of this particular venture, he knew there was one.

But sometimes his old life picked and pulled, like an abuela at her threads.

The rattle of a horse's bit and loose throatlatch provided a distraction. The old man sat in the saddle with the back of a king, straight and loose jointed. His brown sash was tied at the shoulder, over a small leather bag, proof the bag held something of worth. Despite its scruffiness, the face was untroubled, almost like a young boy. Eyes roamed the hacienda and courtyard before settling directly on Johnny.

He swallowed then spoke with a pinched up throat, "Scott, who'd you bring home?"

His brother dismounted, waited for the old man to get down before talking. "This is Señor Benito Morado."

Johnny stepped off the bricks guarding the front door. As he went closer, Morado's face became chiseled with hard planes; losing some of its innocence.

"He, and the horse, found me in Morro Coyo."

Johnny's head came up. "Is that where you went this morning? I would've gone with you. Could've picked up the house list from Maria."

He realized he was talking just to fill the air. He stopped and silence wormed it way into the cracks. Benito patted his bag once then twice. His eyes shown bright and Johnny shivered.

"What's wrong?" Scott had snuck close to him, almost brushing his elbow.

"Nothing. Nothin's wrong."

"Do you know him?"

"Do you think I know every Mexican who shows up?"

"Well, do you know this one?"

"No," and he saw Benito's eyes leap up and down and it seemed to him that his smile grew. Something had set him off, but Johnny didn't know what. What word or bit of sentence had caused it?

"He's not one for talking very much. Doesn't understand English." Scott ducked his head. "But I couldn't leave him in Morro Coyo."

His brother walked around, gathered the reins of both horses. Worry made a V between his eyebrows, thoughtful, almost broody—always that

"Johnny, can you take him to the bunkhouse? I'd better go tell Murdoch we have a new hand." No one laughed despite the fact they all knew it was big talk for a handout.

The old man set up a conniption fit, waved his hand around, flung out his Spanish like spitting watermelon seeds. It pulled Scott right up.

"He says he wants to go with the horse," Johnny said.

"Does he mean the stable? Establo? He wants to sleep there?"

"Yeah."

Scott leaned over, murmuring, "Do you see anything wrong with that?"

"Only if the horses mind."

Scott grinned and shook his head, waved them both off as he went inside the house.

The piebald went along easy, head drooping from the ride, flapjack-wide hooves nearly tripping her up a few times on the uneven ground. But she came alive at the barn doors and galumphed into a stall with little grace, stuffing her black nose into the feed bin. Benito hurried in with a hitching gait, not too different than his horse. It occurred to Johnny that animals and humans weren't that far apart after all.

He started off in easy Spanish as he swept his eyes across the interior looking for the old cot. "Did Scott feed you in town?"

Benito nodded.

The cot was buried under horse blankets and tack. Spiders and rolly-pollys scattered when he swung out the wooden legs. Benito captured his arm and pointed to the straw on the floor.

"Can't say I blame you, bound to be easier on the back." He shoved the cot back into its hidey hole and leaned over the stall to rub the mare's knobby sway back. "It looks like your horse could use some fattening up."

"She's not my horse, I would be much kinder. We rented her from the man in town."

"My brother picked this nag?"

"I wanted her."

"That makes more sense." He sat on a bale and watched as Benito first laid out a ratty blanket then dug into his bag. He reminded Johnny of someone, no one he knew—he wasn't lying about that earlier—but maybe someone he saw once, along the border.

"So you just tapped into Scott, thinking he was an easy mark for a meal and a bed?"

The old man looked downward at an angle into Johnny's face. "There is nothing to me. You can see for yourself. I don't ask for anything." Pulling out a small bundle wrapped in red, he measured the width of the window sill between thumb and forefinger, unwrapped the cloth and placed a figure on top of the sill. He did the same with three more figures until they were all lined up on the wood, backlit in halos of hazy sunshine coming in through the dirty window.

Johnny stood, went to the window. "Who are you old man?"

"No one. I am here because I was sent." And he nodded to the figures lined up like so many blackbirds on a fence.

His ease vanished, replaced by the same unsettledness as when they first met. "Sent for what?"

"I don't know."

"That's no answer." Aware that Benito was giving him more than enough time to study the figures while he finished his makeshift bed. A breeze wafted in, cooled the unexpected sweat on the back of Johnny's neck.

"It's the only one I have, Mestizo."

The slur had no bite, not like the old days. Merely a name, and spoken in sing-song as if to comfort. Anger was difficult to hold, which worried him. He needed it, a ledge to hold on to. Maybe he was slipping.

Benito chuckled low, under his breath. "Why is it so difficult to believe? Do you not see impossible things with your eyes every day?"

In spite of Benito's size, he felt overwhelmed by him, pushed out of place. "Because life ain't that way."

"You only believe what your eyes see. What you can touch."

"It generally works out for the better that way, yeah."

"I saw something last night; it woke me from my sleep. Many different colors. It was good."

"And your dream got you here."

"Not so big a leap. Surely you dream, and you are here." Benito crossed his arms in front of his faded sash. Might have been real fancy at one point in its life, but the yellow and white threads were coming loose in their patterns. "I see no difference."

Scott called to them from outside.

Once again, Benito noticed Johnny's hesitance, pulled that quicksilver grin over the seamed terrain of his face, eyes glints of brown in the hard light. The breeze kicked up, and sand swept across the stable floor. Grit forced Johnny to look away and he scrubbed his eyes.

"I'll be watching, old man."

He followed Benito out the door, but not before stopping at the row of frowning faces. He reached out his hand to the Virgin, stopped just shy of touching her face and all the edges became blurry, coherent thought difficult to hold. She smelled of straw and incense and ancient things.

~o~o~o~

It took an extra half day but the work was finally finished and Scott returned from the haying fields about one-thirty. `Farmer' was now part of his growing résumé. He could hear his grandfather's voice with forced joviality designed to stave off any complaining: "Scotty, it's not just a job, you're learning a profession!" He hadn't believed it then about accounting, he wasn't about to believe it now.

The vaqueros and cowboys had deigned to do it, regarding any job that didn't involve riding squarely on a horse's back a poor method of earning a living. They had several derogatory words to say exactly what they thought when forced into commission. But he had taken to it; found that his long length gave him greater leverage with a pitchfork.

They were getting in the last of the hay crop on land that had been partially crisscrossed by Pardee's fires. Murdoch had planted it in wheat but it had suffered from both the fires and a lack of rain. The growth had been cut for hay which ran just shy of a ton to the acre. He added the figures to his pad of paper, knowing he'd never remember them by the time he got back to the house to report. By two, he had the hay brushed from his trousers and the same pad and pencil in his hand to take measurements for the stone walls. The whimsy had not let go, merely intruded upon by real work.

He glanced in the direction of where they left the hay, feeling a warmth settle over him that wasn't due to the sun. The satisfaction of a job done well. It was a yardstick for the distance he had left behind in Boston, made him feel like he could do anything.

But with the stones, he didn't know where to begin. So he began at the beginning.

He started at the partial left two walls, the ones that stayed in the shadows until midday and gave the widest view of dark mountain pine. Stepped off counting each footfall until he reached the corner, then angled down the right side, where destruction was the worst. His back was to the hacienda when he heard a few accented words of English.

"Why do you build the walls?"

Twisting around, he came elbow to nose with Benito. "You're speaking English." He was able to count the number of horses in the corral—twice—before asking his next question, finally understanding that the old man wasn't going to offer more explanation than that without prompting.

"Why?" Scott used the word like a cattle prod.

Benito shifted, felt the jab. He put his bowl of potatoes and curled peelings on the chair outside the kitchen door.

"You knew how to speak English all the time?" asked Scott.

"Why do you bother?" Benito repeated.

The clothes and sandals looked the same—tattered and frail—just like Benito himself. His eyes were bright, holding something back. He followed Benito's halting gait as he picked his way through the fallen stones, rubbing his fingers against the white and red streaks within the granite, assessing the jagged end of yellow sandstone. His shoulders were tight as though bracing himself for something. But he was going slowly through the rubble, patting the stones as one would an old friend.

So Scott easily caught up with him, to stand and look out to the shallow valley. Spread before them was the corral and barn, farther south on the horizon were dots of cattle and pastureland. Diego was on his way to the bunkhouse smoking a cigarette and tipped his hat. "The mare is doing better, but she'll need more green in her bin," they were warned. He passed and the smoke lingered long after he ducked inside.

Scott fought off the betrayal. "I was tired of tripping over the stones every time I needed to saddle my horse." He stood silently for a few heartbeats, which was all the permission Benito needed.

"Aren't there other ways to the stable?"

He wondered if Benito was mocking him. The last few days he'd been thinking of a good way to broach the subject with Murdoch—that he was a Harvard-educated Lancer, albeit with no real working knowledge other than summer walks in the country, who wanted to rebuild a few walls for no discernible reason other than desire. Despite the fact there were plenty of able-bodied men around to do the labor.

"I don't expect you to understand. Maybe I don't either." He took a deep breath. There were moments within the stone walls, under so many stars it seemed as if someone had taken a paintbrush and flung white across the sky in a pique. Moments where he could wrap himself in the pure quiet and let go.

Benito nodded as if Scott had spoken out loud. "Bueno."

A thought came and he pointed to the pile of rocks the old man had touched. "Do you know how to work them into a wall? One that will last?"

The old man thrust out his hand, this time Scott looked closer. It was a working man's, thick skin over the palm and fingertips, studded with cracks and old calluses.

~o~o~o~

The valley before him was fertile; it would give years of good crops and fat cattle. So different than the land he left behind. Benito breathed in all the wondrous smells: yeasty bread, horses, cut hay. Any man would want for such a place, but he yearned for the sun-baked ground of his ancestors.

As old as Benito was now, he couldn't remember when he had first heard them. Perhaps the saints were always there, because listening to them was as simple as pulling on his shirt. They had drawn him to this rancho like it was a campfire to warm his hands, he felt a gentleness creep into his veins, smoothing away pain and worry.

He was needed.

Benito picked up his knife and bowl of potatoes, content to watch the young man measure the trench, estimating how many stones were needed.

"Mestizo," he called out and watched as the dark one stopped, a black shadow in his lean against the pale adobe. He'd been watching, of course.

"What is it?"

"Feel the stones. They are solid, just as the walls will be when fully built."

"That piece Scott's working on will never keep anything out." He turned so Benito only saw the clench of muscle in his cheek. So prickly this one.

Men like the young one standing next to him lived with one foot in the past. A year ago might as well have been last week. He chose his words carefully.

"Perhaps a wall like this isn't made to keep things out. It's to keep things in."

Tired, Benito slumped back into the chair with his bowl and closed his eyes. He heard a scrape of boots, the ring of spur, the quiet slide and friction of hands against leather. And soon enough, through a tickle in his left ear, he heard the soft murmurings of two brothers.

"Scott, did you talk to Murdoch about this?"

"No, why? Did he say anything?"

"Just that he was thinking of letting it stay the way it is now. Was kind of puny to hold off anything, don't you think?"

"How would you build it?"

"Maybe add another few feet, make it high. Hard to jump over, you know? Set it all in place with `dobe to make it strong, like the hacienda."

"A fortress around the castle?"

"Something like that. This won't stand up to a breeze."

"It will hold."

Benito fell asleep thinking of the warm sun.

~o~o~o~

Murdoch sat behind his desk, shifting papers from the left side to the right. With all the events of the past month, his correspondence, letters and newspapers—and wasn't Scott asking about them the other day?—lay sprawled across his desk like so many lazy cats. After a time, insistent tapping coupled with outright thunks from the back of the house trickled their way into his skull.

The notion that anyone was working on the veranda's walls caught him unaware, as if it was Friday already and he'd missed payroll, along with Wednesday and Thursday. But he did tell Johnny to clear away the rubble after the haying was done. He would decide what do about it when the mess was cleared. Thinking that, he proceeded to put it out of his mind.

Until much later when the noise stopped, and curiosity got the best of him.

He walked outside the kitchen door. The wind came up like it did every afternoon and blew through the long grasses, making it look as though rolling waves of green would flood the house at any moment.

"It's a beautiful land."

Benito, the man from town. He stood near the adobe of the hacienda, out of the dust. He had an easy grace about him, and in his prime would have been powerful, built as he was like a fighting dog, made of sinew and muscle. His high-bridged nose reminded Murdoch of a framed painting hung on a church wall, all beams of light. The painting's serenity was marred somewhat when the subject yawned and rubbed his whiskers.

Bringing the man home presented an aspect of Scott he hadn't expected. Kindness was hidden under that formal, hard exterior.

Murdoch stepped out into the middle of the space, floundered with its openness. "Yes it is. Very much so."

"Like these walls were once."

"This has its own beauty, I suppose. Change seems to be a necessary thing."

"Why?"

"It has a tendency to keep a man humble. I've kept my eye to the future and what potential this land has inside its fences. Perhaps there should be no walls built."

"I think humbleness is learned from God." Benito smiled at Murdoch. "And the past, what of it?"

Murdoch felt like a big hand might descend from the sky to curl around him and squeeze. His sons were home—fully grown and yet unknown to him—and maybe God had something to say about that, but Murdoch doubted it. The God he had believed in seemed to be far away.

He must have made some noise, a grunt maybe, because Benito roused himself from the wall, wind teasing strands of hair in a riot of white about his head. He stared at Murdoch, shuttered and unreadable.

Murdoch let his eyes roam over what was in front him, then walked to far side where the walls used to be, like he could hold back time. The past was stitched on the faces of Scott and John, all he had to do was look. It was tangled up with each blade of grass, every drop of sweat, each piece of wood.

He'd been in this position before, standing at a precipice, at a fork in the river, and he'd made a choice. He just didn't know why this one—so trivial after all the others—was different.

Two short sticks and a straight edge of twine caught his eye. He bent over and twanged the level, seeing the old trench he had dug twenty-five years earlier expanded and neatened. Gravel partially filled the opening almost the entire length of wall. He noticed other things as well. Stones were bunched in piles, but not through the randomness of destruction. They were set in purposeful bundles of color and size. A shovel and chisel leaned casually against a strut.

The boys—men—his sons, had taken the decision from him this time. They were rebuilding the walls.

He didn't really know how he felt about that, but a part of him was pleased.

~o~o~o~

It was four days later and after working on them here and there between cattle, paperwork and one wrenched back, the veranda's walls were finished and no one could recall what the fuss was in the first place.

It wasn't until the morning of the fifth day they discovered Señor Benito Abreo Morado had left the ranch. Disappeared as if he was never there, except for two things: the spotted mare and the Señora de Guadalupe.

Johnny was the first to comment. "When are you gonna take the mare back to town? Rental fees must be getting kinda high by now. Although I don't see why she couldn't stay here."

The mare pushed her head into Scott's hand and he let her. She lipped the bandage wrapped around his palm, the result of a little too much manual labor and not enough skin. "You're right, I don't see why she can't stay here, either. I think I just might keep her."

"Won't be able to get any work out of her, but…" Johnny had a soft tease in his voice.

"But what, brother?"

"I thought you would."

They both looked up to the window sill, either by rote or accident, and saw the four outlines in the dust where the saints had made their home for a short while.

One of them, the Señora de Guadalupe, had somehow found her way into Johnny's coat pocket, wrapped in precious red linen. He had found it the day after Benito left.

She still smelled of hay, incense and ancient things.

The End


	24. Two For Luck

**No warnings, except for a few curse words. Special thanks to Anna for the beta review.

Two for Luck

What had been weeks, Johnny now counted in months. Being tied to the land was different than the open road. But it was the same, in a way. New things to worry about.

He relaxed in the saddle, head bobbing with the rhythm of his horse. A faster-going set of hooves, and wagon wheels, kicked dust going north. Craning his neck back, he couldn't see the stage, but knew it came from Morro Coyo.

It followed the road that followed the river more or less to where Scott was dealing with the bull's owner. He didn't even think about the deck of cards. Maybe his brother had a right to be angry, sure. And that thought didn't change anything. Keeping his horse trotting along wasn't a problem, the only hard thing was keeping the grin off his face. He gave a short slap against Barranca's shoulder with the reins, feeling the breeze stiffen with the surge.

He wondered where that one was going—Modesto, then west? Or further north? He liked not knowing where. It just was, moving on and moving out. He slid his hat down, drinking in the day.

A black and white blur erupted through a screen of trees in a flurry of wings and shrill cries. Ears pinned, Barranca lurched back on his haunches then sprang forward. Feathers brushed Johnny's cheek and he fell, somersaulting into the dirt. A rolling bag of bones for anyone to see.

Jumping to his feet, he brushed himself off, breaths coming hard. He shook his head, watched the bright twitch of horse tail speed away, all the while trying to talk his leaping heart down to where the rest of him stood. Never liked birds, and he had one more reason.

You couldn't exactly plan for something like that and now he had a walk and his leg was hurting like a sonofabitch and had bloodied his elbow. Not pretty. Useless as a matter of fact. On habit, his hand went down to his holster.

Shit, he hadn't even felt it fall out.

He took a few halting steps toward a spray of ferns, lifted them up. Nothing. Sweat tickled down between his shoulder blades.

He searched, legs churning through the tall grass like a combine harvester. Crunching over uneven ground, the bird's laughing caw was never very far away.

He pulled his collar away from his neck, hot, dirty. No, he hadn't expected this, but he guessed it was life, after all. He didn't shy away from it. Except for a few things. Not as if he didn't know what it was like dealing with old man Rowe, a boil would be more welcome. But Scott had a right to be mad, the bunkhouse deck was marked. He stopped for a second, felt the valley shift and sway a bit until he focused.

Where was the damn pistol?

A clearing was ahead, and Johnny saw a scrap of color move into the shadows. With just the knife in his boot, he drew closer. A campsite was hidden behind the trees, a makeshift tumble of blanket and tarp.

"Boy, that was the most awkward fall I've seen in some time." The voice surprised him, deep as it was, friendly. Johnny stopped. It called out again and this time a man followed. A wispy black beard, hand gnarled around a bottle. He came out halfway and stared.

"I usually do all right. But it's been a while," Johnny explained on a shrug. "Since my own horse threw me."

The man kicked at a ratty woolen blanket on the ground that had seen too much service on an Army cot somewhere and sat, eyes never leaving Johnny, bright beneath seams of tanned leather.

"I thought you were gonna break something, rolling off like that." He gestured to a piece of rotted canvas. "Have a seat, if you want."

Johnny took the bottle when it was passed. Whiskey or something close, he didn't ask, but took a gulp, felt it hit his stomach with a bang. He brought his eyebrows close together and made a face. The man laughed brittle and hard, just like the bird, and Johnny grinned back.

"'Bout the only thing broken is my pride," Johnny sighed, feeling his elbow with his fingers. "I've had worse, though."

The man's face split in two with a half-toothless smile. "I just bet you have, with grace like that." His cackle hung in the air. "Uh-huh, one for sorrow."

"What?"

"A black and white bird, yellow beak, came out of the tree, didn't it? That's a magpie. And unless you talk to him real sweet, he'll bring you bad luck. Now two, mind you, well, that's real lucky. Time to bet the races."

The bottle came back again and Johnny sipped this time. The drifter's name was Wiley and he wasn't too much older than Johnny, turned out. He'd been in the valley through the too-warm spring, goddamned weather, because he'd taken sick and couldn't travel. A friend had already left, to where breezes were cool and the air filled with ocean salt. They spoke about the towns they both knew, about riding from Matamoros all the way to Red Bluff. About the road and how it was, friends or no. Which towns didn't water down their liquor and which had a sheriff who would turn a blind eye and not throw a body in jail. "It's a good idea to stay out of them all together," Wiley explained, grubbing around in his beard like something was on the move.

The drink was warming on an already hot day, and Johnny stretched his legs out, trying to get what little cool he could. Wiley peered at him with sharp eyes.

"That horse isn't the only thing."

Johnny's hand went down to the empty holster. "True."

"Like losing your right arm?"

"Something like that."

"Tell me you're not one of the pistoleros, a kid who thinks slinging a gun from place to place is the good life."

"I've lived rough and using a gun seemed like a good idea." He scowled a little. "I sure as hell needed to get away every once in a while."

"It kicks up sometimes, doesn't it? Doesn't matter time of day, place. But we sure know when it hits, huh?" Wiley hawked and spat on the ground.

Johnny refused another slug of booze. Still had a walk ahead of him, a fair number of miles to get home and his muscles were already seizing up, leg getting stiff. Wiley's face was creased, like an apple left in the sun. A sign of every day lived hard. So too were his bird eyes, never resting, on the prowl for his next worm.

Wiley took a long swig of the bottle, drained it. His trousers were tied up with a length of rope, heavy boots were nicked, split at one toe, and two pairs of socks on each foot waggled down his calves. "You should've taken that stage. Ridden it all the way. Get on out of here." But his knee jumped up and down, constant.

"Catch that westbound?" Johnny asked, half-joking.

Wiley shook his head. "You don't get it." He threw the bottle into the grass and it caught a tic of late afternoon sun and Johnny knew Murdoch would be wondering when Barranca showed up at the house.

Two magpies must have been around when the Pinkerton found him on that hill top, almost but not quite, a dead man. And afterwards, two paths, but only one of them really possible. There were things Johnny kept hidden, even from himself, but this wasn't one of them. "Sorry," he whispered, more to himself than to Wiley, the smell of bird and juniper enveloping them both.

He stared at Johnny, eyes a hard and broken grey. "An itch needs to be scratched."

Johnny got up with difficulty, because his muscles had gone tight, thanked him for the liquor and the talk. Wiley told him to come back anytime.

"Except you won't be here. You'll be in San Francisco," Johnny called over his shoulder.

"That's right, I'll be gone."

Johnny crossed the glade. He didn't look back.

Back to the where he'd fallen, his boot kicked something heavy, caused him to yelp as his leg protested. He risked a glance down to figure out what it was, surprised to see his pistol, in need of cleaning, but intact.

A chattering came from high up and he found himself more than irritated.

There.

Black-white against the green. Saw it move again, cautious, hopping from one branch to another. Maybe waiting for him to make amends. The whole idea made his skin crawl, but he eased into the smile he knew made most people smile back, and nodded.

His eyes followed the bird, and then his feet did, too. Came to a ring of old, high-as-the-clouds poplars and Barranca standing in the center, lipping a few weeds. Considering Johnny was working off alcohol and sweat, the horse appeared calm enough, turning his head to focus his brown eyes on Johnny's.

He gathered the reins.

If he rode hard, cut across the river, he could catch up with Scott before he went into the lion's den. But his attention was on the horizon, eyes steady. The sky was pure blue. Beautiful.

It wasn't the sort of observation Johnny Lancer made often.

The End

7/11/13


	25. Height

**No warnings.

Height

"You're a long drink of water," the sergeant said. "Keep your head low and you may just stay alive."

I smiled, more by rote and form than substance. The phrase, too often used, vindicated the need for _something_ to hold up my head. Displeased with my spurt at sixteen, I was left with short cuffs and a matching attitude. Where Grandfather huffed, I growled. I was the tallest of my classmates and breathed in the world's ills. The Rebellion had been struck one year earlier, and my own revolt was close at hand.

Better to die of being too tall than of boredom.

Feb/09


	26. Drawing Lines in the Grey

**No warnings.

Drawing Lines in the Grey

Chapter 1

"Piss-ant weather. That's what you'll run into." Sheriff Fergusson was correct on both counts. The weather was piss-ant, as the man so eloquently termed it, and they'd ridden right into the stuff.

The weather seemed timed with the twilight and as darkness mushroomed across the sky, so did more rain. Fat drops of it spit off the end of Scott's hat to the front of his jacket. Raising one gloved hand to wipe the wet away, he only succeeded in getting it down his jacket sleeve. He settled his eyes on the hunched back of his brother. "We should have stayed in town."

Johnny curled himself in tighter, the only hint Scott knew he'd been heard.

The reply-finally-was muffled, caught between the collar pulled up around Johnny's mouth and the pelting rain. "You coulda stayed."

"Hardly." The problem was that the boy in Alliance reminded him of Tad Wilkins. How that memory snuck past all his defenses, he'd never know. It crept around and edged into his brain like the fog from Boston Harbor, until it was a fully formed entity-solid and tangible. Right there for the plucking.

The remembrance wasn't of action or even so much of form, although Mark Parrish had that skinny lankiness they all bore at the start of the Rebellion. It was the set of the eyes, the easy smile and the sideways cant of his head so Tad-like, it made him take a breath.

They'd almost bypassed the Lucky Star, but an urge for cheap beer-anything other than the stale water in his canteen-buzzed through his brain. Johnny was easily persuaded, just a tip of the head toward the door and he was in.

He swiped at the wet running down his cheek and wished to God they'd never seen that saloon.

Johnny pulled up Barranca. "There. We can make a camp."

It was a sketchy overhang of bare rock that Johnny pointed to, with enough room for a fire and two men to stay dry standing underneath-if one of them stooped. His jacket was damp and clinging, the only real warmth was where trouser met saddle and even that was intermittent. He nodded. Not the best, but they'd both had worse.

Dismounting, he rolled some of the stiffness out of his shoulders and yanked his coat collar tight around his neck. The dampness was bone-deep, a thing that only a roaring fire and a few fingers of Talisker's could correct. Unfortunately the scotch was locked in Murdoch's cabinet at the ranch, more than twenty-five miles away.

He looked over his saddle at Johnny. The wet planes of his brother's face stood out, all hard edges and shadows.

"Johnny…"

"Nothin' to say, Scott. I did what I had to do. That's all there is to it." He walked toward the outcropping. "I'll get the fire going."

 _Did what he had to do_. Well. Maybe the movement would give his brother time to breath, to edge down from whatever particular cliff he was looking over. Pragmatic, Johnny was able to draw lines in the grey, somehow dividing out the black and white.

He knew something about life and death himself, but it was messy and circuitous, shrouded with doubt-sometimes Johnny made it look easy. But today wasn't one of them.

There was an odd snick of metal against metal, but before it could fully register a dull boom slammed into the tree trunk next to him, sending out showers of splintered wood.

Two more shots peeled off before Johnny dove straight into him, sending them both cartwheeling past the overhang.

He wiped at his eyes and floundered on the wet shale, trying to get his legs underneath him. The rifle cracked again, this time further away. Then another shot that he hoped was Johnny's answering pistol.

Scrambling up, Scott ran past the fork in the trail into the woods. A clearing was ahead and he slid into it on rain-soaked brush. The meaty sound of fists hitting bodies was intermingled with curses.

He fired off two warning rounds, and the men turned in surprise. Then a sickening crunch and crackle of splintering underbrush echoed across the clearing. Both men gave startled yelps before they disappeared.

Panic froze his legs for a moment. He jogged to the edge of the rise and peered over. Johnny lay at the bottom of the short ditch in a curled heap, the other man was missing.

"Are you hurt?" His hands fanned out on Johnny's back. "Are you hurt?"

Johnny flinched when Scott pulled him over. A dark spot welled up on the white shirt, off to one side. Pushing a few fingers under the torn fabric, they came out wet and sticky. "Where else?"

"My leg." Johnny tagged his sleeve. "It was Parrish."

"Are you sure?"

"It was him. Son-of-a-bitch kept comin'."

"Okay, okay." A furtive glance around revealed trees and brush and the shadows beyond.

"Johnny, we've got to go." He wrapped his hands around the lapels of his brother's jacket and hoisted him to his feet.

"Not to the horses. He'll be there."

Scott frowned and looked in all directions. The beat of urgency inside him drove a decision. North, away from the horses. Away from town, too.

~o~o~o~

They stuttered to a stop. It happened again. Scott heard someone or something behind them. He pulled Johnny behind a juniper trunk and waited. Just the rush of blood in his ears. Maybe it was exhaustion overtaking his senses. Their slowness pulled at his strung-out his nerves.

Silent for the last half mile, Johnny had given more and more of his weight until he was fully leaning against him. Warmth pressed between them, shoulder to thigh, and however slim, it felt good.

Every now and then he'd snake a hand from under Johnny's arm to his chest, feeling for the heartbeat. The first few times, Johnny pushed him away. Now nothing. Just the step-slide-hitch-stop through the wet forest with more hitch-stop than steps.

The steady thrum inside him threatened to erupt.

Step-slide-stop. The break in cadence was unexpected and irritating, but Johnny wasn't moving anymore. He looked up and saw why.

Grandfather had drilled into him at an early age a belief in a destiny of his own making. God never entered the picture until one muggy April night in Virginia, wrapped in the stench of blood and spent cartridges.

Surely, this would line up in the Providence category. He blinked twice. Tucked away in the middle of nowhere, with a stack of animal hides and discarded antlers adorning the front, stood a hunter's cabin.

Destiny be damned.

He shoved the door with his free hand and it swung open on wooden hinges. A fireplace took up half the north wall, and a few scattered sticks of wood littered the flooring. Too dark to see much more. He hauled Johnny in and pinned him against the wall, then turned to shut the door.

"We there yet, Boston?" Now that was a name from the past. Maybe Johnny was feverish already.

"We're inside, if that's what you're asking."

Johnny took it as a cue and his knees buckled. He hit the floor hard and bounced to his stomach, favoring his right side.

"Couldn't you stay put?"

Johnny rolled and spoke over his shoulder. "What do you think I'm doin'? Lot easier down here."

"Just…just stay there until I get a fire started."

"I'm not goin' anywhere."

He kicked a few pieces of kindling to the fireplace. God it was freezing. His breath plumed out in wisps of white and silver. It took two tries before he could wrap his dead fingers around the flint and three more before he could get a spark. Wringing in cold sweat, he stooped down and pushed his hands almost into the small flame.

The fire's soft light slinked about the interior, encouraging the musty smell. Johnny was sprawled on the floor and quiet.

He straightened and hopped over his brother's legs to a bundle of hides and bedding squeezed into the corner. A few spiders scurried away from the ancient mattress, leaving rolly-pollys caught in their webs. He slapped away the worst and spread it out before the hearth. Fisting two handfuls of Johnny's coat, he pulled him over.

Johnny raised his head. "So, how is it?"

He dropped to his knees and peeled back Johnny's jacket. "Give me a minute and I'll let you know."

Curses welled up. One bullet had torn an ugly crease into Johnny's side. The second was an in and out through his thigh, still oozing blood. The mattress was already discolored with it.

A bluff and a dodge were easier. "I think I saw you hurt worse around yearling time. The cow that got the best of you, remember?"

"You mean got the best of you. You were the one tryin' to hold' er." Johnny's words slurred.

"At least I had the good sense to be beside her, not in front."

"I told you…told you not to go near her calf."

He looked up from the gore to find Johnny's eyes were closed. So much the better.

There were two cabinets, curtained off by soft speckled deer hides. He pulled out two dust-covered bottles of what looked to be whiskey, one half-full. A small tin of either salt or sugar and a rusted frying pan made up the rest of the contents.

He unrolled the rest of the bedding and picked through it, finding half-way decent linen hidden between the blankets.

When he got back to the fireplace, Johnny was awake. Scott waved the half-bottle of whiskey and uncorked it.

Johnny tossed down a drink, spilling a little on his chin, and sputtered. "Cheap rotgut."

"It's the only game in town, Brother. Take another." He blew a few specks of lint from the linen pad and held it over Johnny's torso. "Ready?"

"Just do it."

The alcohol splashed over the chest wound.

"Jesús Cristo!" Johnny twisted away while fumbling the bottle, hand blanched white against the glass.

He sat back and wiped his sleeve against his cheek. Now the leg. Johnny nodded at him to start. The round hole was reddened and raw, its edges black. A rush of heat rolled over Scott, and his hand shook over the wound. He pointed toward the whiskey with an elbow, waited until Johnny tipped it upwards again, then doused.

Another few beads of sweat trickled down between his shoulder blades. After tying off the last of the homemade bandage, he reached up to snag the bottle out of Johnny's lax fingers. It wasn't until he pushed away from the mattress he realized that both hands were unsteady.

Sitting cross-legged on the floor, he propped his head up with one hand and waited. A handprint of blood, crusted and dark, was smeared his hip pocket. It had all happened in the blink of an eye, the whole miserable thing. He'd spent the last hour second-guessing himself about leaving the horses.

Johnny lay turned toward the fire. Pale. Quiet. A few lines of pain etched across his mouth, but none of the anguish from before. A dark spot had already formed on the thigh bandage.

Because the worries didn't stop he got up to pace the cabin, feeding the fire first. The fresh wood caused the flames to hiss and spark, burning a bit brighter.

Glancing about the room, he really saw it for the first time.

Something was odd about the far corner where he found the bedding. Squinting in the dim light, it became clear. A rather lascivious print of Lotta Crabtree was pinned to the wallboards. Clothed in ridiculous short pants, she was smoking a cigar with what looked like utter enjoyment.

The cabin's owner was eclectic; Harper's Weekly supplements and peach labels were plastered side-by-side, keeping Lotta company. He turned to look at the door. It made sense now. The corner was a focal point for the door. Eclectic-and careful.

There was movement from the blankets. Johnny wasn't out near long enough. Two fingers were under the bandage wrapped around his thigh and he was half-way up to an elbow. "You tied it too tight."

Scott palmed Johnny's chest, pushing him back. "I had to stop the bleeding."

"My leg's burning. Loosen it up."

"You want to bleed to death?"

"Better than waiting for Parrish to come and get us."

He stilled.

"Must've tracked us from town." Johnny eyed the fire. "We might as well hang a sign outside sayin' 'here we are, come and get us'.

"You're cold. I'm cold."

Despite his injuries, Johnny was focused. "He'll find us."

He sighed. "I don't have any doubt."

"What kind of weapons do we have?" Focused and to the point.

"My revolver."

"And?"

"And my revolver. That's it."

Johnny's eyebrows climbed into his hairline.

"Exactly."

Not able to settle, Johnny picked at the blanket's pilled edge. "I didn't want to kill him, Scott."

Chapter 2

 _Scott eyed the poker chips amassed in the middle of the table._

" _You gonna bet or fold?" Mark Parrish's words were directed to Johnny through a sneer on his young face._

 _Johnny was playing cat and mouse with Parrish. Sonora rules. Which added up to no rules at all. And that was all right because the Tad look-alike didn't seem to appreciate the finer points of playing poker anyway. The boy took a sledgehammer approach-no finesse at all, much like the real Tad._

 _Johnny checked his hand and threw a few colored chips to the pot. "Ten dollars."_

 _Carl Sprader, a shopkeeper from north of town, drummed his gnarled fingers on the table. The wad of tobacco tucked behind a left-sided molar jiggled up and down as studied his cards. "Too rich for me."_

 _He gave a cursory glance to his cards. At the top of his game, Johnny was a wonder to watch, but hell to play. "I'm out."_

 _Parrish bunched his chips and pushed them forward. "Call the ten, and raise you ten more." He gulped down his whiskey and the sneer was back. A look of triumph._

 _Johnny sat back and thumbed his cards, then fingered the felt on the table. Leaning in, he spoke in a low, worried voice just loud enough to be heard at the table. "You got me covered, Scott?"_

 _The Green River Ensemble was missing an actor. He tipped his head and suppressed a grin. "Always."_

 _Nodding, a slow smile spread across Johnny's face. "I'll see your ten and raise you eight."_

 _Parrish flushed to the roots of his brown hair. "Eight more? You know I don't have eight more!"_

 _Johnny shrugged and made to scoop up the pot._

" _Just hold on, Mister."_

 _Parrish pushed back from the table and scrounged in his front pocket. He brought out a bright gold coin, etched with writing._

" _Now Mark, your daddy ain't gonna be too happy if you lose that piece."_

" _Mind your own business, Carl. Pa gave it to me, didn't he? Besides, I'm not gonna lose."_

" _Well, I…um, reckon." Sprader shook his head._

 _Parrish rubbed the piece between his fingertips, almost in reverence. Placing the coin on the table, he slid it to the center of the table. "It's worth a lot more than eight dollars, Mister."_

 _Scott angled a look to Johnny, but he was already plowing ahead._

" _Not in this pot."_

 _Parrish glowered._

" _But I tell you what. We'll call this even, I'm gettin' tired anyway."_

" _No! I call your eight." The boy's smile was giddy. "Queens high."_

 _Johnny fanned out his cards-a full house._

 _Parrish's face suffused with red. His mouth was working, but no words came for a moment, then a whisper squeaked out that grew to a bellow. "Cheat!" He kicked back his chair and pointed at Johnny. "He's a damn cheat!"_

 _Parrish whirled on the shopkeeper. "Carl, you saw what he did, right?"_

 _Sprader eased back from the table. "Now hold on…it seemed fair…"_

 _The saloon went dead quiet._

" _Why don't I buy you a beer and we move on to better things?" No one would know it by his soft voice, but Johnny was en pointe._

" _I don't want your goddamned beer."_

" _This was your play, kid, no one else."_

 _Parrish's draw was fast._

 _Johnny's was faster._

He slid his fingertips to Johnny's forehead checking for fever. It was there, already marking the pale skin with two red points, one on each cheekbone.

The afternoon was a million years ago, the actual shooting hazy. But the blood under his fingernails was real enough. A bite of laughter bubbled up at the absurdity of it all. He squelched it back down and lifted the bottle, taking a drink.

The whiskey was almost gone. It wouldn't last the night. He let the bottle fall to his side where it knocked against his holster. His gun. If Parrish did make a run for the cabin, there were only four bullets to stop him.

Johnny was mumbling. "Too bad Cal Parrish had to find out."

"Find out what?"

"How it is."

"How what is?"

Johnny looked at him like he was a slow child. His hand crept out of the blankets to wave in the air.

"Everything, Scott."

Sick or drunk or both. He grabbed Johnny's wrist and tried to push it back under the blanket.

"To lose someone." Eyes intent, Johnny pulled away to tangle his fingers in Scott's jacket. "He was full-on grieving, never figured on him coming after us. Didn't seem the type."

For one traitorous moment in the saloon, Scott wanted to find Parrish and tell him how his son was killed-fathers always want to know the how. A quick truth was easier. Get it done and over with, maybe the man could accept the circumstances of his son's death.

It all happened too fast, though. Before he knew it, the sheriff was pushing past him to the body, with Parrish trailing behind. Flickers of shock, outrage and pain. It was all there the instant Cal Parrish saw his son's body on the floor.

And now Johnny was lying on the floor.

He thought about it, then thought some more. There were steps to be taken.

Johnny was slow to rouse, his face tight with pain.

"I'm leaving to find the horses."

"When are we goin'?"

"We're not. I am."

"What?"

"You're too much of a liability, Brother. We wouldn't make it twenty yards." He took his revolver and held it out, butt-end first.

Johnny shied away. "You're not givin' me that."

"I'm leaving it here."

"You get about two steps out the door and _bam_. Parrish'll be waiting to pick you off."

"Maybe."

"It's stupid to try."

He forced a smile. "The eternal optimist. Now take the damn gun. You'll need it if Parrish comes before I get back."

"Wait….just wait." Johnny looked around the room, settling his eyes on one spot. "Help me get over there." It was Miss Crabtree's corner of the room. Smart.

The mattress was dragged to the corner. Johnny laid halfway on it and halfway propped up against Lotta's legs. Even with the simple movement, a sheen of sweat covered his face.

Scott pushed the pistol into Johnny's hand and left the rest of the whiskey canted against his leg. Any other time the scene would look comical, but Johnny's eyes were halfway closed and the bandages showed too much red.

~o~o~o~

It was a gamble going after the horses but the night, combined with the woods, was good cover. There was moonlight now, no more rain. One more point in his favor. The path dipped down past a stream and he followed it for a while, going south.

The two horses were still tethered by the outcropping where he and Johnny left them. As if it was nothing strange to lose your owners for six hours. He felt a sudden chill run down his spine that didn't have anything to do with the damp midnight air.

It was there. The unmistakable click of a revolver being cocked.

"I knew one of you would come back." Cal Parrish bounced the gun in his hand. "But I was hoping it would be your brother."

Parrish stepped out of the shadows, close enough to realize the man had tracts of tears down his cheeks.

"My wife died a year ago, Mr. Lancer. All I have left to remember her is this gold coin. Did you see it?" He pulled the coin out of his front pocket. It trapped a piece of moonlight and seemed to glow. "Gave it to her on our wedding day. It reads 'Forever'. The etching cost a pretty penny, but my Abby was worth it." He rubbed the coin between finger and thumb. "Only it wasn't forever. And now my boy is dead, too. Your brother made sure of that."

He swallowed. "Your son…"

"His name is Mark."

"Mark played a part in this. He would have killed my brother." He clipped his words-something was simmering inside, ready to boil up and spew.

"It wasn't supposed to be like this. My son and I were supposed to be together." He waved the gun toward the horses. "You can leave, Mr. Lancer. It's your brother I want. Where is he?"

Fear crawled through him like those spiders from the mattress. Think…think!

"Johnny is already in a bad way, Parrish. Why don't you just forget about us? I get help for him and we go on about our business. No fault, no foul."

"You know I can't do that."

"It doesn't have to be this way." An idea popped into his head. Less than half a chance, but it was something.

Parrish went to put the coin back into his pocket.

Now. It was now. "I'd like to see that coin, Mr. Parrish. You see, I was married once, too. She died, back in Boston." The lie tripped off his tongue.

Parrish's eyes flicked to him, then down to the coin in his palm. He shook his head.

"She had brown hair and blue eyes. The prettiest you'd ever seen." The die was cast. "Her name was…Julie."

There. Hooked. Parrish held out the coin, keeping his revolver high.

He took the piece and ran a thumbnail across the word. Admiring it for all he was worth. "It's very nice. I can see why she liked it."

He palmed the coin and offered it back. The gun tipped towards him, so he took the gold piece between thumb and forefinger and stretched out his arm. Parrish took a step forward.

His left hand shot out to grip the long barrel, turning it up. A deafening shot exploded beside his ear. Smoke cleared and he wrenched the gun from Parrish's fingers. Bobbled, it landed a few feet away.

He dove for the pistol. The fear and anger, the wet and cold, Johnny lying in his own blood-it all crowded in on him and he jerked the trigger.

The first shot caught Parrish under the ribs. Eyes going wide, he stumbled back toward the trees. The second shot hit him square in the left chest and he pitched facedown. With a final half-hitching sigh, the man lay still.

His breaths came out in puffs of white, the heavy pistol awkward in his cold fingers. He pulled it up higher onto his thigh, letting the heat from the spent barrel seep through the wet fabric of his trousers.

The ringing in his ear made his head spin. He glanced at the body, but no real thoughts of Cal or Mark Parrish came, only ride to the shack, find Johnny alive, get him to town.

He wobbled to his feet.

The small cabin wasn't hard to find again. The door an easy push as it bounced back against its hinges. He stopped in the doorway.

Johnny was laying down, his head off one end of the mattress. A well of dark blood blossomed out from under his leg.

It was too late. "Johnny!" The sharp knot in his stomach twisted.

Johnny twitched and brought the gun up. "Come…come to finish the job, Parrish?"

The colt swung in a crazy arc then pointed at him. He lunged for the mattress when the bullet whisked past him, biting off part of the door jam.

As Johnny tried to get the gun righted for a second shot, Scott's hand closed over his brother's and tugged the weapon away.

He sagged back on his heels. Too close. This had all been too close.

~o~o~o~

A thought came to him in a vague sort of way. The kind where you didn't know if it happened, or if you'd dreamt doing it. Only this was real. The harder Scott concentrated, the clearer the picture grew.

He'd been an ancient nineteen.

 _The Wilkins's parlor, crammed with heavy furniture and purple brocade drapery pulled tight against the afternoon sun, was stifling and closed-in after so much field work. He tugged at the blue serge buttoned around his throat. Cognizant of his weary-looking boots, he pushed his toes further under the ottoman in front of him. Nobody could keep a shine on issue boots, and it was important there be one today._

 _Ina and Michael Wilkins stared at him in that expectant type of way-respectful of the uniform, if not the boy inside of it-sitting on the edge of their seat cushions, tea left to cool on the doily-covered table._

 _After polite necessities, he told them a story of gallantry, of their son dying for the cause, hoping the picture he painted fit the son they loved before he left home. Because it wasn't the Tad he knew. His parents bobbed their heads like two parakeets after each sentence, eager for the next lie._

 _He rambled under their stares-Tad was a good friend, always smiling, hard to wake up for morning drill. Their grief was still new, palpable in a way, and it washed over him, conjuring up images he'd put to rest during the last month. Looking away, he fumbled to a close and stood._

 _Later, by the white railing on the front porch, Michael Wilkins pulled him aside wanting to know the how._

" _That was a good story."_

" _Sir?"_

" _What you told Tad's mother and me in the parlor."_

 _Scott scuffed his booted foot against the porch strut, making the rowel sing as it spun on the spur. Tad was reckless-and a bit naïve. He was able when it counted, but sometimes Scott had just wanted to shake him, tell him to wake up. And now, what was he supposed to say to his parents?_

 _Mr. and Mrs. Wilkins, your son died in the back of a canvas tent, ankle-deep in mud and pissing drunk. Shot by one of our own, over a pot of money not worth twenty dollars._

" _I know my boy, Lieutenant. I just want the truth."_

 _Mr. Wilkins had grey eyes, Tad inherited the very same. Kindly, with crinkles at the corner._

 _The story, and all its inequity, spilled out._

 _A faraway look clouded the grey. "Tad always had a wild side. We thought the Army…." Wilkins ran a hand through his thinning brown hair. "Well. At least I know."_

 _Cold anger sizzled and sparked. For Tad, his parents and maybe a little for himself._

Something tugged on his arm. The motion beat its way past his dreams and he jerked his head upright. When had he fallen asleep?

"Jebediah Fergusson is here. He wants to ask you some questions."

The doctor's wife, certainly used to having injured cowboys dumped on her doorstop at all hours of the morning, held a measure of sympathy in her eyes. She took his hand and unclenched the tight fist, placing a ceramic mug filled with hot coffee into his palm.

"My Jonas takes it black. I didn't think to doctor this up any." A glimmer of mirth replaced the sympathy.

The corner of his mouth pulled up at the small joke. At some point in the last hour a gingham quilt was thrown over his lap. He fingered a frayed edge, drawing out a few red threads, trying to gather flyaway thoughts.

"You looked cold, even with the fire."

He nodded. The cobwebs shifted, and his thoughts settled on Cal and Mark Parrish.

She waited until he took a sip. "I expect you'll want to talk to the sheriff outside, so as not to disturb your brother."

A train running through the middle of his room wouldn't wake Johnny, not with laudanum on board. And the good doctor had dosed him to the eyeballs. He took the hint to get going and lurched out of the rocker, the coffee tipping from rim to rim, until her steadying hand came under his elbow.

"Jebediah will want to talk with your brother, when he wakes up, too." She said it with the perfunctory ease of one who had ample experience with lawmen and killings.

~o~o~o~

The sheriff would have to wait another three hours. But when Johnny awoke, it was with bloodshot eyes and one question.

"Parrish?"

"He's dead. Should be off the mountain and at the mortician's by now." It came out too casual and Johnny, even under a narcotic haze, caught his worry.

"You killed him."

A short nod. It was a ridiculous gesture to describe the endpoint of a man's life.

"Shit." Johnny turned his head to stare at the door.

"He was waiting for me where we left the horses." Parrish's look-the one of complete surprise-when the first bullet plowed into his gut, made his stomach jump with a quick slide of nausea.

Johnny eyed him. "I'm not blaming you." He swiped a shaky hand across his forehead, scattering dark bangs. " _Dios_. Not for this."

His brother's pragmatic side reasserted itself. "I know you, Scott. If you're sayin' it had to be done then that's it-it had to be done." His eyes closed again before the last word was out.

How many times in the past did Johnny say those words to himself? How often did they have to be repeated before he believed them? Black or white. Or grey. And the ability to draw a line between the shades.

Simple really.

Placing the empty coffee mug on the floor beside the rocker leg, he stretched out his legs, and pulled the quilt up higher on his chest to wait out the laudanum.

It was a trait he envied.

The End

Dec '10


	27. Long Walks and Ruminations

**No warnings.

" _You must walk like a camel, which is said to be the only beast which ruminates when walking." —_ _Walking_ _by Henry David Thoreau, 1861_

Long Walks and Ruminations

A horsefly droned near his ear. Johnny waved his hand and it flew off to land on Betty's rump, a black spot on a sea of brown. He watched the mare's skin ripple, then her tail swished, catching air. He aimed the long tether of the reins and flicked, sending the fly off across the canyon.

The wagon rumbled through jerking movements going up the incline. The colors had changed steadily from the yellow adobe in town to the green of the valley way below the floor of the trail. It was almost like someone had made a mark in the ground—to the right was all city brown and on the other side…Lancer. Somehow it seemed just about right.

He leaned forward and put his elbows on his knees, sparing Scott a quick glance. "Good book?"

Not looking up, Scott nodded. "Very."

"So what's it about?"

"It's Thoreau, and an essay he wrote about walking."

Jiggling the reins in his hands, Johnny considered the bobbing heads of Betty and Tucker. "Taking a walk? Did he mean to do that? No horses around?"

"No horses."

"Not real practical."

"I suppose not, but it got him to where he wanted to be—eventually."

Johnny angled his elbow to shoo away another fly, a fat one from Scott's thigh. "I guess that was the whole point, huh? Takin' his time, gettin' there under his own steam. Nobody fussin' over time or schedules. Sounds kinda good to me."

Scott shifted on the box seat and grinned, one finger still marking his place in the book. "Yes, it does."

The horses were coming into their traces, straining now with the full load. Johnny braced his foot against the wooden strut of the seat and leaned into the reins. He breathed in the cooler air and hunkered down into silence.

Lately, there'd been a lot of fuss over time and schedules. Given the circumstances, a man could be real envious of Mister Thoreau and his walk.

A popping noise got his attention. He and Scott turned around in time to see three hewn planks tumble off the back of the wagon. Then a fourth decided to join them.

 _Dios._ He pulled up on the reins, bunching the leather into one hand.

A small sigh escaped from Scott and he placed the book back into its box under the seat, then vaulted down from the wagon. He slipped and slid on loose rock to the fallen boards, hugging the side wall of the wagon. Stopping to view the valley below, he wiped the back of his hand across his brow and shook his head.

"At least we didn't lose any over the edge."

Johnny heard the scrapes of wood against rock—and a muffled curse.

"You could come down and help, you know."

Johnny set the brake good and tight, pushing it forward with his left foot, and tied off the reins. "This whole thing would be solved by the old man shilling out a few pennies to make his own mill."

"Amen. It would be a wise investment. Especially since we spent half the day doing nothing."

Bumping up a board with his foot, Johnny floated one end to his brother.

A sly half-smile came to Scott's lips. "How was Amanda, anyway?"

"Real good." Johnny paused and considered. "You know she has a friend. A friend of a friend, really."

Scott's mouth tightened and he gave the timber an extra hard shove into the wagon.

"Just got home from back east, too. Some fancy school for girls."

"And I'm sure she has a wonderful personality."

"Mandy said she could squawk a crow off a barn roof a half-mile away." He made curving motions in the air. "But she cuts a fine figure in all the right places."

"And why do you think I'd be interested?

"I don't know you well enough to figure out what you like, Scott. But those books gotta be a little tirin' all the time."

Scott hauled up the last board and waved a yellow-gloved hand at him. "Johnny, I've been ducking well-meaning relatives and match-ups between friends of friends for a while now. I don't need any help in that regard."

"Mandy was just askin' is all."

"Besides, I like to do the looking for myself."

"Can't argue with you. Huntin' is half the fun."

"Does Mandy know that?"

Betty gave a loud, annoyed whinny, shaking her head. The wagon trembled and backed up a few inches as she rattled her harness.

Scott threw him a look. "Did you set the brake?"

"Yeah, but something's goin' on up front."

Tucker caught on to Betty's mood and bunched his haunches.

"Shit!" Johnny started to run.

The big bay half-reared, coming down with a bone-jarring thud that shook the wagon. Betty's rump swung out, her hoof striking the tongue. It splintered and Johnny heard a sickening crunch of wood against metal as it twisted free and the wagon started to roll backwards.

Johnny dove for the horses, his arm going around the hames on Betty's collar. She swept her head to the side flinging froth. He twisted, but Betty caught him on the downswing, snapping his jaw closed. Sharp points of white light blurred out his vision. Chest heaving, he dropped to the ground, barely noticing the bite of pain running down his leg as Betty sidestepped over him, clipping him with her hoof.

He rolled away as the two horses stampeded off, leaving a narrow furrow in the soft dirt between them, trailing reins and harness.

Johnny jerked his eyes to the wagon, lying halfway on its side, the contents strewn out and jumbled like so many matchsticks.

 _Scott._ He couldn't see him anywhere.

Johnny fixed his gaze on the contents of the wagon, looking for any hint of the white shirt Scott was wearing. He staggered up and caught himself, stayed that way for a second, then swayed toward the remnants.

Teresa's bolt of sky-blue fabric was unfurled, one tail end flapping against the wheel. Thoreau lay open, half-spilled out of the box, its leather cover slit from top to bottom. Oaken boards stood at odd angles here and there, a few broken off and splintered. And underneath it all was—nothing _._ Johnny rubbed the sweat from his temple and limped to the side of the trail.

He peered over the edge, following a chaotic pattern left in the loose shale until his eyes rested on the bit of color halfway down the hill. The white stood out like a beacon against the grey.

Johnny hurried over the edge. A cloud of dust billowed out behind him as he made his way, half-sliding down the gentle slope. His right leg buckled under the slippery rocks and he rolled, tumbling a short way. He was unsteady coming up, every beat of his heart echoing the thumps inside his head. Looking downward, he saw Scott hadn't moved despite the pelting of rocks loosened up by Johnny's boots.

Something bumped up against his toe. It was a leather glove, folded in on itself and marred with spots of brown. He found himself yelling, the sound of his voice coming out odd—thin and airy—against the roaring of blood in his ears.

Scott was wedged face downward on a spare outcrop, limp and still. His upper body was twisted with one shoulder pulled underneath. The only visible hand still had a glove on it. One long leg was angled up to hip level, the other stretched out behind.

There was blood on the shirt and smeared across the cheek that faced him. Johnny wiped his hand off on his jeans then pressed two shaky fingers to Scott's neck. The pulse he searched for was there—weak, but still beating. He let go a sigh of relief when Scott moved.

"…go…back…"

Johnny inched closer on his knees. "What?"

Scott opened his eye—dirt-rimmed and wild-looking. "...get…off..."

He felt the tiniest of shudders roll through his knees as shale began to slither away under the toes of his boots.

Johnny grabbed two fistfuls of white shirt and pulled, sending a shaft of fire pulsing through his thigh and hip. The ledge gave one more heave, and crumbled beneath his legs. And then there was nothing at all.

~#~#~#~

"Johnny."

Something poked him. It moved again, right under his back.

"Wake up."

"Wha…?"

"Get off my leg."

Johnny's eyes flickered open. The light left over from the day was harsh and made his brain seize up inside his skull. He squinted over his left shoulder. "Scott?" Holding as still as possible, he forced his eyes open and found himself looking up into the eyes of his brother.

"Are you all right?"

Johnny edged to a sitting position and cradled his head in one palm, struggling to recall the fall down the hill. "You scared the piss out of me."

Scott shuffled his heels in closer and put one hand underneath to boost himself up. He got halfway before sitting back down again. Johnny couldn't help much, not with his skull pounding. He clenched his eyes shut against the light and pressed the heel of his hand harder against his temple. Then cracked them open when Scott swatted him on the arm.

"I tried to warn you."

"Shit, it's not that, I thought you were dead."

"Well, I'm not." Scott rubbed his chest in slow circles. "Yet, anyway."

Looking through slits, his brother was grey beneath all the dirt and his breathing wasn't coming easy. Johnny took his own ragged breath.

"Just as well, that'd be awful hard to explain to Murdoch. It's bad enough we have to tell' im about the horses gettin' loose. And the wagon."

"Did we lose it all?"

Johnny dipped his eyes. "Yeah. I think the new corral will have to wait." He lowered his hand to his thigh, sneaking two fingers in through the hole in his jeans left by Betty's hoof. Moving them apart, the rip widened enough that Johnny could see the long cut, oozing dark blood. "How'd you get down on that ledge anyway?

"Teresa's fabric. Caught me square in the chest and…" His hand arced out. "Off I went."

"You're bleeding."

Scott shook his head. "Just scratches."

Johnny blinked away his blurred vision. He stuck a finger into the opening of Scott's torn shirt and pulled the linen away. A mass of dark purpling ran across Scott's chest down to his waist.

"Ribs?"

"Broken, I think." Rummaging around in his pocket, Scott pulled out a handkerchief. "Here take this. You're bleeding, too."

A wide swath of it showed dark against his jeans, almost down to his boot. Johnny took it and made a tight wrap around his thigh, biting back a hiss of pain.

"You've also got some up there." Scott motioned to his own hairline.

Fingering the big knot near his forehead, his fingers came away sticky and red. So that's why he had an anvil pounding away like a son-of-a-bitch inside his skull. "Betty and I butted heads, before it all went to hell."

He cast a glance to the top of the hill.

Scott's voice was firm. "We aren't going back that way."

The set of the sun was low against the horizon. It would be nightfall in another hour or so. And he didn't like the thought of wandering around in the dark.

"What about goin' around instead?"

~#~#~#~

"It's getting late."

Teresa's voice startled him. A bundle of wildflowers, all yellow and red, was held in her arms. Murdoch didn't know the names of them all. But he knew there weren't any roses in the bunch.

"It'll be time to eat pretty soon."

He looked past the forge at the sun, set lower in the sky than he remembered, and sighed. The corral wasn't going to be fixed today.

"Should I hold dinner?"

Laying down the hammer, he took off his thick gloves and found Teresa watching him. "We'll go ahead. Maybe they ran into some problems with the lumber."

"Or they stopped to get a drink at the saloon. And Scott would want to check on his shipment from Boston. Maybe Johnny went to see Amanda at the mercantile. He's a little sweet on her, I think."

Murdoch cocked an eyebrow at his ward. _Where in heaven did she get all that from?_

"Anyway, I'm sure they're all right."

"Are you trying to stop me from worrying?"

She smiled and shrugged. "Is it helping?"

He broke into a smile, one he didn't feel. "We'll give them a little more time yet. They're probably still on the road."

Teresa pointed with her elbow to a rider coming in through the east gate. "Maybe Isidro has seen them."

The vaquero rode up to the watering trough on his black dun. The big animal danced in place while Isidro dismounted and tied him off. Taking a hatful of water, he poured it over his head and neck, straightening when Murdoch strode over to him.

"Any sign of Scott and Johnny on their home?"

"No, Patron. But I came in from the west."

Teresa's shoulders slumped and she gathered her flowers closer. "I guess I'll start dinner then. And keep a couple of plates back to keep warm." She turned and walked towards the house, trailing a few yellow heads here and there.

Isidro kept his voice low. "Is there trouble?"

Murdoch filtered a hand through his hair. "No, they just haven't returned from town yet."

A smile played about the vaquero's mouth. "The father, he worries?"

"No…yes. Errant children."

"There are a lot of things in town to hold a young man's fancy." Isidro chuckled.

"Even so…"

"It's been too long since you worried about them."

Startled, Murdoch realized the man was right. It had been far too long.

~#~#~#~

One hour and all the further they'd gotten was half-way through the canyon. If he looked back he could probably still see the spot where they landed on their asses at the bottom of the hill. Deciding it wasn't worth the effort, Johnny concentrated on the path ahead, putting one foot in front of the other.

Scott's shoulders hunched. One arm was held tight against his belly, the other fending off the oak and aspen runners pulling at his boots and trousers. "This isn't…working...so well. I've got to sit down for a minute."

 _Gracias a dios_. "It's about damn time. I was done a half-mile back."

"Why didn't you say anything?"

"Well, I am now. We're in for the night, yeah?"

Scott nodded and slumped into a bent half-sit against a tree trunk. Johnny, feeling a little woozy and lightheaded, slid in next to him. He listened to Scott's harsh breaths until they finally settled into a regular rhythm.

"Don't let anyone tell you you're not hard-headed, Scott."

"Likewise. We earned it honestly enough."

Lifting his head, Johnny squinted up through one eye. "How's that?"

"Murdoch."

 _The old man._ Johnny settled deeper into the crook of the tree root. As the throb of his leg quieted, he wondered if Murdoch was even getting worried yet.

It was full on night when he opened his eyes again. For one disorienting minute, he thought he was back at the ranch, and Murdoch was telling him to wake up. If anyone were to ask, he would swear Maria's buñuelos were frying on the stove.

Pushing up to an elbow, he glanced about the clearing. Scott was sitting upright, his head tipped downwards. At first, Johnny thought he was asleep, but then he moved, propping his cheek up against the knuckles of a curled fist. The strain was evident, even in the dark. Angled in the moonlight, his face was shiny with sweat. Scott's eyes opened and seemed to focus. His voice—full of rasp—broke the quiet.

"Are you awake?"

"For all the good it is. We're still out in the middle of nowhere." Pain was coming back in waves. His leg muscles twitched under the handkerchief. Fingering the bandage, he felt a few damp spots, but more dry than wet. The cut had stopped bleeding somewhere along the way. Rolling to the side, he hitched himself up higher against the trunk. "It was good in my dreams. Full of cinnamon fritters and soft beds."

"Nice. Send some over here when you get the chance."

Johnny slid his eyes closed. "Scott, did you ever wonder?"

"About what?"

"Murdoch."

There was a good length of silence and Johnny opened his eyes. "Scott?"

"I did for a long while. Then stopped when other things became more important. Since coming here, I've found myself thinking about him—and a lot of other things—again."

"My mama wasn't too happy with Murdoch Lancer. And she let me know it. Guess I believed everything she said at the time. Didn't know any better. Then I got older. Murdoch grew bigger and bigger in my mind, until it crowded out everything else."

"What happened?"

"My pistol. Got too busy to think about it anymore. Then Mexico came along and it all came back again. That thousand dollars looked mighty good, but the chance to see Murdoch in the flesh and look' im in the eye? Well, that was worth a whole lot more."

He thought back to two days ago when he and Murdoch argued over breaking the new mustangs. But by the time Murdoch was picking him up out of the corral wreckage, all Johnny heard was concern in the old man's voice. Turned out his father was right. "Sometimes with him ridin' herd so much…"

"…it's hard to think about that equal partnership?"

"Yeah. He can sure fuss." Johnny looked up. "You seem to take it in pretty good."

He saw a flash of white teeth in the darkness. "It's different with me. I've had a lot of practice in knowing when, and where, to pick my battles. But it doesn't mean I'm complacent."

"What?"

"Satisfied."

"I don't get that from you. In fact, I've seen a whole lot of times, when you weren't. Why'd you come out here anyway?"

"Curiosity. I wasted more than a few years being angry. Fueled, in part, by my Grandfather. The myth of the man became too great to ignore. That coupled with the intrigue of a thousand dollar bribe—well, it was enough to get me here."

"What about stayin'?"

Scott shifted, bringing one knee up under him and leaning to his good side. "It's been interesting."

"That's not really an answer."

"It's a placeholder for the real answer."

"And that is?"

"I don't know." He exhaled a noisy breath. "What about you?"

"I kind of like to see all the cards thrown on the table before I make a done deal. And maybe they aren't all turned over yet."

"When will you know?"

"Hard tellin'."

But more got played out every day. Some were high cards. Like his brother. He'd been around enough men to weed them out. Although he couldn't figure out what drove Scott, he did know that his brother dealt a fair deal—he was a good man. And that was enough for now.

As different as night and day, but they did share a few things in common—Murdoch in particular—and now Lancer.

Quiet ruled as he tried to find a spot of comfort against the old tree. A stone found its way into Johnny's fingers and he rubbed the smooth surface until it became warm in his hand. "I wonder if ole Murdoch is seein' anyone on the side. You ever think about it?"

Scott's soft snort echoed across the clearing. "No. And you shouldn't, either."

"You don't think he's got a filly stashed in town somewhere? I mean he was in an awful hurry to get rid of us this morning."

"Johnny, he was upset after you ran that mustang into the corral fence and brought the whole side of it down."

"That grulla was a mean bastard, all right. But I think it started before that. Remember the other day with all those cows in Teresa's rose garden?"

"That wasn't my fault. The cattle were spooked by a snake."

Johnny grinned in the night. "Don't matter. You were standin' right by' em. Lookin' guilty as hell, too."

Scott ran a hand over his face. "God, no wonder he sent us to town. He doesn't have a woman; he just wants to get some peace and quiet."

"Yeah, I guess we can be a handful at times. You think he's ever sorry he brought us here?"

"I have no idea." The words were quiet and a little wistful around the edges.

"We did get rid of Pardee for him."

"For us."

"Well, yeah. Us."

Scott's leg moved out again, accompanied by a stifled groan. "I remember what you said in my bedroom that first day…about paper burning. But Johnny, you signed the partnership anyway."

"Yeah, I did. And as I recall, you put a pen to the paper, too, Scott. So what does that mean?"

"I guess that means we're obligated."

"Then maybe you oughta think a little more about stickin' around."

Johnny couldn't pin down when it happened—maybe it had started at the lawyer's office. All in all, it surprised the hell out of him, because in some remote way, he'd begun to think of Lancer as _home_.

~#~#~#~

Murdoch rolled over and punched his pillow, the book he'd been reading fell to the braided rug with a muted thud. As the grandfather clock in the hallway reminded him with each chime, he wasn't making any headway on sleep.

He didn't know why he just didn't get rid of the damn thing. Except for the fact that Catherine had insisted on hauling it out west. She didn't find the broken finials under the tarp until Denver. He pursed his lips, remembering the mistake of waiting to tell her until the time was right.

That was one mistake he didn't ever make again.

But the methodical ticks of the clock hands hadn't been so apparent the last two months, if noticed at all. Ever since Johnny and Scott had made their way home.

It was pointless to worry about his grown-up sons.

Isidro brought amazing clarity—it had been so long since he allowed himself to think of them in _any_ way that when the worry came back, the full force of it soured his stomach. No, they were adults. And they would be treated like adults.

 _Liar._

Didn't he manage to lose his temper at Johnny for ruining the corral fence? And those damn cows in the yard. The image of a sheepish Scott slapping his gloves against his thigh and biting back words—after the hands had finished prodding him—still lingered in his mind.

And then there was the—uncertainty. God knows he'd felt it more than enough times over the years. First with Catherine, then with Maria. Now his two sons brought it into the house once more. _Would he lose them—again?_

He swung his feet over the side of the bed and padded to the window. Waning moonlight flooded the courtyard, but there was movement below. He reached for his pants folded over the back of the chair and pulled them on.

When he opened the front door, Carl Grayson stood before him, holding the reins of Betty and Tucker.

"Sorry to get you out of bed this early in the morning, Murdoch. I found these two trying to get into my barn. Figured you'd want to know, all harnessed up—it looks like they'd gone missing. Found a tore up wagon tongue in one of my ditches, too."

Isidro, pulled from his bed halfway put together, took the reins from Grayson. He fidgeted with the leather in his hands. "I'll get the men ready, Patron."

At his nod, the old vaquero led the team off, shouting for lanterns and horses.

"Murdoch?" Carl shifted his weight from one leg to another.

"Scott and Johnny were driving that team to town. They haven't arrived back home yet. I thought maybe they stayed in town for the night."

Grayson frowned, his gaze lingering on the two horses being led into the barn before shifting to Murdoch. "I'll join the search party."

Murdoch reached over and clasped Carl's hand in a firm grip. But his mind was elsewhere…where were his sons?

~#~#~#~

The second time Johnny woke up it was almost dawn and he was alone. For one frantic moment he thought Scott had taken off, until he heard rustling in the bushes. He looked toward the noise and Scott was hobbling through them. His lips had narrowed out to a thin line, the angles of his face more pronounced.

"You look like shit."

Scott cocked his eyebrow. "Not any different than how I feel. And you should find a mirror."

He made to get up then found he couldn't put weight on his leg—his knee wouldn't bend. Scott put out a hand, but Johnny waved him off. "I'd bring us both down and we'd never get out of this canyon." Instead, he half-shimmied up the tree trunk.

Standing up reminded him of all the places he hurt. And worse, his vision started to spin when the anvil took up practice in his head again.

"Are you all right?" Scott's big hand planted against his chest, pinning him upright against the bark.

"I will be just as soon as you quit movin' around."

"Then we're in trouble."

Johnny swung his head around to face him. "Why?"

"Because I'm not moving."

He waited a while, just breathing, until things settled. "All right, get off. I can make it myself."

Scott stepped aside but stayed close. "I don't know about you, but if Murdoch came around the corner right now with two horses, I wouldn't be unhappy."

"No more long walks?"

"There's a time and place, Brother. And this is neither."

Johnny drew in a sudden breath and nodded. "We'd better get goin' then."

Dawn gave way to a sunny morning and shadows rippled underneath the trees where he and Scott were walking. Neither of them spoke. Like himself, he knew Scott was hurting, but his gut said to press on.

"Hey, you never told me why Thoreau went on that walk through the woods."

Scott stopped and turned around. Slouched over, pure puzzlement showed on his face. "What are you talking about?" It would have been comical except Scott was looking grey again.

"Well, what did he find?"

Leaning against a low-hanging boulder, his brother scraped a hand across his forehead. It was a gesture that said he was thinking of an answer.

"I guess I don't know. I was interrupted at the good part." A wisp of a smile appeared, then disappeared just as quickly. "Nature? Himself?"

Johnny could understand. It was fine to be by yourself sometimes—but not for too long. He limped up and perched on the rock beside Scott, stretching out his leg. "Sounds kind of lonely out in the woods by himself."

Scott huffed out a breath and shrugged. "Sort of freeing in a way. Not having to answer to anyone except yourself. Deciding how far you want to go in a day's time."

He shook his head. "I've had that life—it's good for a while. But then you start to think about what you're missin', or could've had. And it don't look so pretty after all."

His view shifted off the path to the canyon walls. They were steadily going higher. The real trail was close now; maybe Murdoch would be waiting for them.

He tapped Scott on the shoulder. "Can I borrow that book when you're done with it? I want to see how it ends."

"If I can ever find it again, it's yours."

That Thoreau had it all wrong, Johnny thought. Sometimes a little obligation was a good thing. Like belonging somewhere or to someone. Truth was he kind of liked the feeling.

~#~#~#~

The sharp keen of a killdeer made Murdoch turn in the saddle. There were two birds, both skimming the grassy meadow in a running half-flight, the black bands around their necks bobbing up and down with jerking movements. They were protecting a nest, he realized, leading something on a false trail.

He followed their erratic movements for a while, watching. It was then he saw the out-of-place color.

Scott was first to stumble out of the canyon lip, his white shirt flashing in the sun. Murdoch followed the wave of color until it dipped below a rise, then his eyes flitted back to the canyon's edge. Johnny came next, almost dragging his right leg, each footfall measured and slow.

He swung his horse around and pointed. "There they are! Cipriano, Frank…find the wagon, and tell Josh to hurry." The whoops and hollers of the crew scalded his ears, but Murdoch had already put heels to Toby.

By the time he reached them, the boys had stopped near an ancient poplar tree. He yanked on the reins, bringing his horse up short.

From Toby's saddle, Murdoch studied Scott. His face was filthy, streaked with dirt and sweat. Pale and exhausted, he listed where he stood, one arm clenched around his middle.

Johnny wasn't any better. Flushed with heat, a dirty bandage encircled his thigh—and blood had stained his pants leg down to the boot.

Sweat ran down Murdoch's back. _At least they're alive._ He swung down from saddle, followed by Isidro, and threw his reins to Grayson.

He went to the closest and pulled Johnny's arm around his shoulder, helping him to the shade. Johnny was shaking a bit, the warmth pouring through his thin shirt.

Johnny peered at him with one good eye. "You're just in time, old man. 'Bout given up on you."

"Now that would have been a foolish thing to do."

He stood back as Isidro helped Scott under the canopy of the tree, watching his son's careful movements. His shirt gaped open, showing Murdoch a few pieces of the story.

Isidro clucked his tongue in sympathy. "Lo que sucedió Juan?"

As Johnny spoke in quiet Spanish, Murdoch could see the events in his mind, falling into place like so many puzzle pieces. The slip of a brake, the unruly horses. Scott pushed over the side of the canyon, them both falling to the bottom. He shuddered.

Murdoch pulled Scott's shirt aside and let out a short gasp. Purple, almost black, bruises crisscrossed his chest. Scott's hand came up to rest on top of his and Murdoch felt a quick flex before it was pushed away.

"I'm all right Murdoch. And it's probably not as bad as Johnny makes it out to be."

"You understand what they're saying?"

"I've picked up a few words here and there, with help." He turned to look at Johnny. "Mostly the ones not repeatable in polite company."

Johnny flashed a quick grin from his seat under the tree. "Now when was I ever accused of bein' polite?"

Prattle—so much talk between brothers. Murdoch listened in and felt his heart ease.

Josh and the wagon trundled up, spitting dirt and gravel in its wake. Murdoch supervised as Scott and Johnny were helped to their feet by Frank and Isidro.

The loss of the lumber meant he still didn't have a corral fence, and the hard-earned money for supplies was lost. Yet as he watched his sons get settled into the bed of the wagon, Murdoch smiled a full toothy grin.

Somehow those troubles seemed trivial enough.

The End

Original: 09/2010

Revised: 01/2014/ba


	28. Taking Chances

**No warnings.

Taking Chances

Part One

Scott fell out of his dreams with a gasp. Still dark out, rising early was becoming something of an annoying habit. The _patron_ timed the start to the day, and Murdoch believed in getting an early start to the day. Yet even his father would be asleep at this hour. Scott rolled over in the large bed, sheets clinging and wrapping about his legs.

He'd once taken his life for granted—much like lingering in bed—as something that was owed to him based on lineage and status. That all changed five years ago and since then he'd never forgotten to be grateful for having choices to make. But he often wondered about the decision that led him to Lancer. And what particular brand of lunacy had been passed down to him from the family tree.

It was more painful to think about the man who raised him. Their angry parting was still too fresh after these three months. The circumstances surrounding it were ugly and unexplained, weighing on his heart.

He pulled the sheet around his waist and sat up on the side of the bed, feet slapping against the cool wood of the floor.

Scott thought about it as he readied himself for the day, reaching for the razor. A cursory check found a new scar, a small nick, on the plane of his jaw hidden amongst the stubble. The brawl with Johnny had left evidence, an unwanted souvenir from his new residence.

He didn't mind responsibilities, but he missed the privacy and ease that went along with his old life. Part of the unspoken pact with the Lancer partnership was living under the same roof as Johnny and Murdoch. It was much easier to think about than actually accomplish it most days.

The dream that brought him awake was coming back. It was so vivid. They were standing under the ivy-covered lattice work of the veranda, with the smell of rosemary in the air, an on-coming rain ratcheting up its sweetness. Her voice carried above the din of cattle and men.

" _I knew you'd find your way here—to Lancer."_

" _The place of your death." There was resentment in his voice and anger, too, if he had to admit it._

" _My home." She moved from the chair to stand beside the porch strut, her blue muslin billowing out with the breeze. "The place where my life started."_

 _Scott watched her hand, tip-tapping out an unheard melody against the wood. Following the graceful line of her fingers past the cuffed sleeve to the slope of her shoulder, he settled on the sweep of golden hair gathered at the nape of her neck. She turned and studied him, tilting her head. Grandfather. It was a punch to his belly, the resemblance was so strong._

" _You shouldn't have died."_

 _Flashing a smile, she tucked a strand of flyaway hair behind her ear. "That was never my—our—intention. Trust me, my son."_

" _Trust…in what? The future with Murdoch and Johnny?"_

" _You have to find your own way at Lancer, Scott." She smiled again, the fullness of it creasing the corners of her eyes. "I'm proud of you."_

 _A breath squeezed out of him. "Why?"_

" _For who you are."_

 _He ducked his head to examine calloused finger tips. "I should have stayed in Boston. Grandfather needs me."_

" _No." Her voice rippled with irritation. "Your grandfather wants you away from California. It hurt to have me living here— not at all what he expected from his daughter. Now that you've left Boston, he feels lost once again. But he's not an invalid, far from it."_

 _Before Scott could speak, she took a step towards him. "You've been missing something. It's here, you just have to look."_

" _Tending cattle or repairing fences?"_

 _She swept her hand out in an arc. "You have all this—and more. You'll need to use what's inside you Scott. Patience and loyalty—courage, too. But there's something else you don't have."_

 _Weren't those things enough? Scott shrugged and stepped to the edge of the portico, watching the dark clouds gathering in the west. He felt her hand on his shoulder._

" _Son, if you don't figure it out soon, you'll never find it, and that would be a tragedy."_

Awakening then, the warmth of her hand still lingered on his arm. He stared at his reflection in the mirror, uncomfortable with the renewed sensation of feeling adrift.

Scott walked past the silent bedroom doors of Johnny and Murdoch and made his way downstairs. The aroma of coffee met him before he set foot through the kitchen doorway. Darkness and shadows hugged the room as he found the pot at the back of the stove, still hot.

"It's fresh." One of the shadows moved and Johnny's outline became solid when he leaned into the sliver of moonlight coming into the kitchen window. "Or was a half-hour ago."

Scott nodded and poured a cup. "Why are you sitting in the dark?"

"No reason not to."

It was too early to argue so he sat instead, nursing the warm cup between his hands. Sparing a glance upwards, he saw Johnny's rumpled shirt half-way unbuttoned, its sleeves pushed to the elbows. "A rough night?" He looked closer—Johnny was wearing a lopsided smile. The scent of summer lilacs drifted across the table, intermingling with his coffee. "Or perhaps just getting in?"

"It would be the second one, 'cause the night went real smooth." Johnny grinned wider and rubbed his thumb across the lip of his mug.

"You might want to think about changing your shirt before Murdoch comes down, unless lilac is your new cologne of preference." He took perverse delight in seeing Johnny's smile wobble.

"There might be some truth to that all right. Why are you down here?"

"Something woke me, couldn't get back to sleep. Did you get any sleep on your, ah…adventure?"

"Managed a few hours, here and there." The Cheshire grin, the one that was so irritating, was back.

Scott rose, rubbing the back of his neck, and paced the length of the kitchen. "Johnny, about tomorrow…today rather."

"Yeah, I been meanin' to talk to you about that."

His brother's quiet voice made him jerk around. "What?"

Johnny shrugged. "It's like this—it's a simple enough job. Maybe it don't need the both of us to get it done." He leaned forward and splayed out one hand flat against the top of the table. "And seein' as how we don't exactly see eye to eye on anythin'…"

"You thought you would go by yourself to the cabin."

"Well, yeah."

Scott rested his hip against a drawer front. "I'm of the same mind, only I was the one going."

"I'm not stayin' here and have Murdoch ride my ass for that…adventure…in town."

"Then keep out of his way, because I'm going to the line shack."

Johnny's eyes narrowed. "You're a hard case, you know that, Scott?" He dug into a front pocket for a bright coin. "I'll toss you for it."

"It's a little early, isn't it?" Murdoch's deep voice rumbled through the kitchen. For a big man, his father had a quiet step. Scott watched him walk into the kitchen and stop next to the table, wondering just how long he'd been standing outside the kitchen door.

Long enough it seemed. Murdoch's eyes were a mixture of exasperation and worry. It was the same look he was wearing after Cipriano and Frank had to intervene at the corral.

Johnny tapped against the side of his mug. "About that job today…. I can handle it alone, no need to send the two of us."

Scott lolled his head to one side, eyeing Murdoch, waiting.

"So you two were discussing this, in the kitchen…in the dark…at this hour?" Murdoch tipped his head towards him. "And what about you? Do you feel the same way, Scott?"

"It seems prudent to send only one man to the line shack." He shot a look to his brother. "That way Johnny can stay here and help gentle the new horses."

"Wait a minute…"

Murdoch held up a hand. "You'll both go." At Johnny's grunt, he turned to face him with a warning. "It's final."

Because he couldn't think of any more words or excuses, Scott simply nodded.

~#~#~#~

Johnny leaned back against the wall. The tequila that went down real velvety last night wasn't sitting too well right now. The tapping in his skull, right behind his left eye, made him squint. Boot heels clacked on the foyer tile and he saw his brother stop by the pegged wallboard to pick up his rig.

Scott rolled up his sleeves with care, and pushed the shirttail further into his pants, smooth and tight. He lifted the gun belt from the wall peg and buckled it around his waist. Jiggling the holster, he searched for that right fit before settling it against his hip. One more tug into place then he turned and saw Johnny watching.

"What?"

"We aren't goin' to church, Scott. Just takin' a ride in the mountains."

"And your point is?"

"It's gonna be sundown before we get to Fletcher's Meadow."

"Murdoch hasn't given us our orders yet."

"You mean _you_ don't have any orders yet."

"Far be it for me to be the millstone of this party." Scott snatched his hat off the second peg. "This big rush out the door wouldn't have anything to do with Victoria Rose, would it? The girl who's father is half owner of the bank?"

Rose was a handful of woman. A couple of handfuls in some places.

"No."

"Then the late night in the Morro Coyo saloon?"

"I don't need anyone lookin' out for me."

Scott shrugged. "If that's the way you want it."

He took two slow breaths, willing the noise in his brain to stop. _This was just gonna be one helluva fine day._

Johnny reined Barranca in close beside the rangy bay when the trail narrowed, and edged a look. Scott sat straight in the saddle, shoulders pulled back yet relaxed. Thin features beneath the down-turned brim of a slouch hat…everything about him said _cavalry_. Everything but the white-checked shirt and red neckerchief. Funny how he'd missed it all this time. He should have remembered, after that trick at the corral.

Scott was a man who spoke his mind—when he wanted to. No holding back. Usually Johnny appreciated a man being straight-forward, so he didn't know why that little fight still stung. Maybe it was a little too close to the truth.

 _"Thanks for backing me." Scott slapped his gloves together and shoved them under his belt._

 _"What do you mean?" Because Boston wasn't moving and he wanted to, Johnny started to slip a few steps away from the corral._

 _Scott tipped his head to the circle of men at the barn. "I fired Tucker and you hired him back. You figure it out."_

 _Well damn. "Look, Scott, I didn't mean it like that."_

 _"You've got a lot to learn, Brother."_

 _"I don't need any lessons, not from you." Johnny continued, pleased when he saw the heat rise in Scott's face._

 _One long finger came out and pointed at his chest. "I'm getting tired of walking on eggshells around you."_

 _Johnny shifted his weight from one leg and crossed his hands in front of his gun belt. "Then why don't you come out and say what you're thinking."_

 _"All right. I don't think you're up to it."_

 _He looked at Scott from under the brim of his hat. "Just the job or being a part of Lancer?"_

 _"Don't be an idiot."_

 _"Accordin' to you, I'm already an idiot."_

 _"That's not what I said. You've been on your own too long, you don't think past the day."_

 _"Sometimes even an hour can be too long. And I don't need any advice from a…"_

 _"From a what? An easterner who doesn't know any better?"_

 _Johnny stood and gauged the man in front of him. "Go to hell, Scott."_

Both had waited for moment then charged and grappled in the dirt, getting a taste of each other's fists until Murdoch had Cipriano pull them apart.

He and Scott had nothing in common. No starting point, except the old man's blood. And that didn't count for much, at least not the way he saw it.

~#~#~#~

Johnny was wrong. They made Fletcher's meadow with a few inches of sunlight left on the horizon. The cabin was still five miles off to the west, but he estimated they'd get there not too long after dark.

The high sun had baked the ground into a fine sifting of dirt. It clung to his clothes and to his horse, casting Barranca with a brownish hue. He took off his hat and wiped the sweat from his forehead, settling it back into place. It had also burned off the last vestiges of tequila leaving him cotton-mouthed and bleary-eyed.

Scott started forward, his own dust rising up with each footfall. "The creek appears low."

"Been drier than usual from what Murdoch what sayin' the other day. Be interesting to see what shape that line shack is in."

"That's what we here for, right?" Scott turned and stretched out his bunched reins. "Take my horse. I'll fill up the canteens, there's no way of knowing if the pump at the cabin is still working."

The white of Scott's shirt was a blur of color against the brown and tan of the land. He watched it bob and weave around mazanita and scrub then one last flash before disappearing to the creek bed. Out of place, Johnny thought, his brother was out of place. Squinting, he tried to picture him in that fancy get-up from the stage, but found the image didn't come so easy now. Had that suit been black or grey?

The white reappeared at the top of the rise and stopped, holding two swaying canteens. "Are there cattle up this way?"

Johnny shrugged and walked the horses forward. "Why you ask?"

Scott pointed to the creek. "Because we have tracks—lots of them."

There were prints in the dust, at least a hundred, crisscrossing the stream bed. It'd take a few head of cattle to make the mess he was looking at, one hoof print after another, all heading east.

Scott bent down and ran a finger over a few of the curved patterns in the dirt. "You know, it would be much better if Murdoch did run cattle up here."

Johnny knew exactly what he was thinking. "I guess the line shack can wait a while."

They got the horses moving again. Every so often Scott tilted at an odd angle off his saddle, peering down at the ground. The tracks meandered here and there, farther into the woods. On thing for sure, the men pushing the cows were taking their sweet time, getting nowhere fast.

They found the camp under a few cottonwoods, beside a finger of water sluicing down from the mountains above. A soft plume of smoke rose from their fire high above the treetops.

Beneath them, in the swirling dusk, two shadows appeared. Johnny looked down at the site then away to the makeshift pen holding the cattle.

"They don't move too quiet do they?" Scott whispered.

"This high up, they're not expecting company." But they were careful. Firelight flickered on the men's faces and off the rifle barrels wedged against the tree.

A murmur of the two voices drifted to them on the hillside. The bigger of the two motioned to a burlap bag while the smaller one shook his head. Their horses were unsaddled—it looked like they were going to stay the night. Johnny gave his brother a quick glance. He was looking down at the men, face barely visible under the broad-brimmed hat. But there was a determined set to his chin, emphasizing a little scar on his jaw line. Johnny hadn't noticed it before.

Scott looked up, catching his eye. Johnny nodded, relieved when Scott understood. They'd be stumbling around in the dark in a few minutes. It was time to go.

Part 2

"Hold it."

The men were so set on the bag at their feet that when Scott's voice rang out clear and cold, they came up blinking their eyes, looking like two owls in the night.

Johnny nudged his horse nearer to the fire and leaned forward. The man in front of him was about his height, but beefy through the middle. He pegged him at thirty or thirty-one. His teeth seemed to have taken the brunt of a fight or two and the remaining ones needed a good scouring.

His view shifted across the camp to the smaller one standing closer to Scott. A sorry example of a beard gave his face a moth-eaten appearance. Unlike the first man, he didn't wear a gun around his middle. These cowboys were no gunfighters. But the surprise had worn off and they were staring at him and Scott like salivating dogs after a thick steak.

The man spoke up, whistling through those missing teeth. His grin was all good humor. "Hello, friends. Light down and I'll build up the fire and make us some coffee."

Johnny pulled his left rein away from Barranca's neck and slipped off. He aimed his pistol toward the man's gut. "I don't think we'll be needin' any coffee."

Scott shifted in his saddle, placing one hand on the horn; the other held his gun steady. "Johnny, I'm curious. Why don't we see what's in the bag?"

"That's no business of yours, Mister." Toothless had lost his smile.

Johnny waved his hand to take in the corral. "Just like those cattle?"

"I think you got this all wrong, boy. These are our cattle. Check the brands."

Movement to the side caught his eye. Bearded was toeing the flap over the bag opening.

"I'm sure they do—now. Runnin' brands on yearlings isn't exactly honest work. Let's see what's in the sack."

"Who' er you to be askin'?"

"You're on Lancer property. I'm Johnny Lancer and this is my brother. And we're pretty sure those cows over there are ours."

"Well, I guess that do make a difference then don't it?" A snake grin widened, showing wide gaps. "Better show' em Harley." Toothless nodded to his partner who knelt down beside the burlap. Johnny sensed rather than saw Scott stiffen, but kept his eyes on the big man in front of him. No one said anything for a moment then Scott broke the silence.

"Ah, easy there, _friend_. No sudden moves."

The man edged away a bit after throwing open the flap. Toothless' gaze never wavered, but something was wrong. There was a change in his eyes, they widened just a hair.

"Scott! Look out!"

A gun roared from Harley's hand. The crack of Scott's pistol resounded, making it seem like a single shot. Johnny dove and rolled, firing. Toothless went down in a heap, his gun with the unspent bullet still dangling from his fingertips.

He cast a quick glance around and saw Scott lying unmoving on the ground. His bay had startled to the outer perimeter of the camp. Just as he started towards his brother, he heard a rustling noise coming from around the camp fire. Harley was down, but moving.

Johnny reached him and kicked the gun away from his clutching hands. Caught high, blood was flowing out of a hole in Harley's chest. He jerked once then gurgled out his last breath as Johnny turned away.

He got two steps.

A high pitched voice called out. "Mister!"

A third man stepped out of the shadows, his rifle held waist level. Dressed in ragged canvas jeans, the only clean thing on him was the broad-brimmed Stetson pulled down low over his eyes.

"Drop the pistol." The man nodded to the campfire. "And get over there where I can see you better."

He lowered the hammer on his Colt and tossed it away from him. This one was antsy, shifting his weight from one leg to the other, flashing quick looks at Harley crumpled by the fire.

"Pa?"

Johnny caught a glimpse of a smooth cheek. A kid had hold of that rifle-just a young kid. He took a step forward. "We can talk this out."

"Like you already did?" The boy jerked his chin to the fallen men. "With my Pa and uncle?"

"It's not how it looks. Besides, stealin's not the way to go. We would have given you the meat, if you needed it."

The rifle bobbled an inch lower and Johnny took another step. "One more death isn't gonna fix anythin'."

Firelight shone in the boy's face, glinting off the boy's bright eyes. The rifle rose again. "No sir, I'm gonna do you like you done to mine."

Johnny stared down the big bore of the Winchester. "Just wait a minute." He looked off to where his revolver lay, judging the distance.

The boy shook his head and cocked the weapon. "You're dead, Mister."

A shot snapped out from behind him. The boy's rifle dropped as he tottered backward and pitched over, a look of pure shock clouding his young face.

Johnny spun around. Blood streamed down his brother's arm and splattered his shirt. His temple was creased with it, a bruise already starting to show. The fall from his horse, Johnny guessed.

Bent and hurting, Scott laid his hand on the ground, pushing until he was on one knee, then wobbled up to two feet. Standing there a long moment, not moving, he stared at the kid's body. Johnny saw the frown and the way he looked at the pistol in his hands. Then he lurched off to the boy's side.

Kneeling down beside the body, Scott turned the kid over so his face was backlit by the fire. "He couldn't be more than fifteen or sixteen."

"Old enough to hold a gun."

"And die?"

"Sometimes it comes with the territory."

Scott stumbled to his feet again, a strange expression on his face. The light was dim, but Johnny swore he could see grief.

Leaving Scott leaning against his horse's shoulder, Johnny walked to the burlap sack and opened it. Four running irons were nestled in there, along with another forty-five. But that didn't change a goddamn thing—two men and a boy had died—and Scott, almost.

He kicked the flap closed again, sending the irons clanking against one another.

~#~#~#~

The boy's thin face—a stranger in the woods—was a jagged reminder of all the others. Lungs squeezed hard in his chest with sorrow. Scott swallowed it back down and pried his eyes open, focusing on a whorled knot in the warped table.

Boot heels scuffed behind him, then the opening and closing of cupboard doors. Johnny came around, a few cotton rags in one hand and a bottle of whiskey in the other. "Not much here, but it'll see us back to the ranch. Good thing the bullet passed through. Lot of blood, though." Hesitating, he thumbed the top of the cork. "Scott…thanks for that out there."

Rubbing his forehead, Scott worked a small grin he didn't feel, and squinted up through one eye. "I suppose you're glad I came along after all."

Johnny's mouth thinned out. "I'm tryin' to say thanks."

More than weary and unable to care, Scott let his eyes close. He inhaled and sighed—rosemary—it was comforting.

 _She hummed while working her embroidery, pulling the last thread taut. "Look to what is right in front of you, son."_

" _But that boy…"_

 _Pale eyes became misty, her hands went still. "Defending a life took a life. You've been through this before."_

 _A parade of young men with grey faces made his belly tighten. "Bellum justum."_

 _She nodded and silent tears fell on the bright weave she held in her hands._

" _I don't know what to do."_

 _Concerned, she set her work to the side. "Your instincts helped you survive then…follow them now". She stood to face him, her palm cool and dry against his sweaty cheek. "Darling, wake up."_

"Hey, don't go sliding off the chair on me."

His brother was close, jostling his shoulder. He opened his eyes when Johnny's knife slit the sleeve from shoulder to elbow, inspiring pokes of fire to run down his arm.

"Scott? What's it mean, that bellum justum?"

He didn't remember saying it aloud. "Nothing…it was just a thought."

The knife stopped and was tossed to the table. Johnny's silence was edgy, ratcheting up the tension Scott already felt. He hitched a breath and took a chance. "It means a just war. But resorting to it… should only be considered under certain situations"

Johnny's head tilted downwards, but Scott had seen the thoughtful look before he turned. There would be more questions to come.

"It wasn't your fault, killin' that boy. He was gonna shoot me, come hell or high water. From where I'm standin' that's 'just' enough."

Scott watched him fuss with the rags, ripping them in half for suitable bandages, then reach for the bottle. The air was close in the cabin, almost stifling. He put his hand on Johnny's arm to stay the whiskey.

"It's not so much that I was forced to kill him, Johnny." Nausea flared, and bile threatened at the back of his throat. "Did you ever…did it ever come too easy for you?"

By the look on his brother's face, he'd manage to shock him.

Johnny fingered the cork, popping it out, and took a swig. His voice grew soft. "Maybe."

"Well, I didn't think twice about pulling that trigger." Scott took the bottle and brought it up to his lips, feeling the burn trickle down. "I've killed in battle. Oh, it's not the same as in a gunfight I guess, but I was good at it. And it got to be easy after a time."

"When did it turn for you?"

It wasn't with the first. Another stranger met in the woods by happenstance. And later, long after all of Scott's retching at the side of the road, he found the corporal's pimply face burned into his memories. He studied his hand. Dirt and dried blood discolored it, mapping the cracks and crevices of his skin with a garish hue. "I thought this many years after Virginia, the feeling would have left." But it resurfaced fast enough from whatever depths he had relegated it to.

"It started before we marched to Richmond. Sheridan wanted to overwhelm the Confederates at Yellow Tavern—and so we did, with a cavalry column almost ten miles long. The hostilities took place almost immediately, but the rebels hid in every ridgeline and tree top, and after a time we were driven back from our advance."

He looked up to see what Johnny was thinking, but found no recriminations. "Then the real fighting began. Dismounted, man against man. Three hours later, it ended." Only the lull didn't last, Snyder's Bluff, Milliken's Bend and Vicksburg all followed—one bloody contest after another.

"How'd you break it?"

Scott shifted to take some weight off his side and cradled his arm against his chest. "It was broken for me—after the siege of Vicksburg." More dark memories threatened to pull him down. The throbbing from his arm pecked away with an ever-rising thrum; he slumped back into the chair rungs. "Maybe I just want to forget it."

"Well I can't. You saved my life. That's a lot of trust to put on one man."

 _Trust…?_ He straightened too fast and spots of light exploded into his periphery, crowding out his sight. She said there was something he needed to find. He thrust out his hand, reaching. It bumped against the solidness of Johnny's chest and strong fingers curled around his wrist.

"Easy now...I've got you."

Johnny's words had a faraway sing-song quality—as if spoken to a child. Bristling, he pulled back his hand, but Johnny didn't let go. Scott's sharp tugs sent shivers into the worse of the pain and his vision darkened to black.

~#~#~#~

It was a paltry dinner, just hot beans and the peaches he found in the cupboard. Johnny found he couldn't eat much and Scott did even less, though his brother managed to get some of the sweet juice from the fruit down his throat before he fell asleep. Since it didn't look as though either of their appetites were coming back soon, Johnny scraped the beans back into the pot and tossed the plates into a bucket of water.

He cast a quick glance to the figure in the bed. Scott's wound had finally stopped bleeding with enough packing, and there didn't seem to be too high a fever yet. The comment made back in the kitchen this morning came to mind. Scott _was_ a hard case—he'd make it through all right.

The four walls were closing in with the coppery smell of blood still tainting the air. He snagged his saddlebags and pulled the door open, stepping out to sit on the porch stair. The trouble with night was that once he got thinking, he couldn't seem to stop.

He took out a few small patches of linen and a tin of oil then pulled his pistol from the holster. Holding it up, the silver handle flashed and sparkled in the moonlight. Gunfighting was a job. Something he knew how to do and he did it good enough to stay alive. But that didn't stop him from wondering, or worrying.

Feeling a little vulnerable on the porch, Johnny dismantled the firearm and set to work.

He wasn't much older than the kid when he first pulled a trigger. Arturo needed killing if anyone did—forcing himself on that saloon girl. But it didn't stop Johnny from dropping the rusty forty-five when the son-of-a-bitch wheezed out one final breath with his pants around his knees, shriveled pecker hanging out.

Or puking over the toes of his boots in the dark alleyway. Just him and that crying girl—what a pair.

He shook his head, knocking some of the memories out, and started to work on the barrel. His work was slow and careful, knowing every inch of the pistol he held in his hands intimately. He kept his gun almost as well as his secrets.

Johnny frowned as he chose the bore brush. It was a secret Scott told him, plain as day. He knew that look on his brother's face, he'd felt it. Fear and loathing all tied up and shoved away where no one could see.

If he was being truthful, maybe it was a part of the reason he came to Lancer in the first place. Because he knew the exact day when pulling a trigger came too comfortable—and it scared the shit out of him.

The old cot inside the cabin creaked. Johnny followed the noise and found his brother sitting up, raking a hand through his hair.

"What time is it?" Scott's voice was gravel-deep, tinged with sleep.

"It's still early, must be one or two."

"Can't sleep, either?"

Johnny shook his head. "No. And this is startin' to become a bad habit." He pulled the pot off the stove and poured out two cups of coffee. "Here, maybe this'll help some." He waited until his brother took one of the tin cups.

The bandage around Scott's arm looked clean from where Johnny stood. The bruise at his hairline showed dark against his paleness. "You all right?"

"Just restless."

"Get you back to the ranch by mid-morning. Teresa'll fuss, just like she did with me."

"Wonderful."

Johnny half-grinned. "It was a little hard gettin' used to it."

"Just a little?"

"Maybe a bit more than that." Pulling out the table chair, he sat and sipped long and hard from his cup. "What you were saying earlier about shooting—and killing—comin' too easy."

Scott looked up, wary.

"It's like this. I really didn't give an answer before…but, yeah, I know what you're talking about." The warmth from the tin cup curled up through his fingers, settling in his belly. After trying so hard to keep it inside, the utter calm felt strange.

Silence covered a good stretch of time until Scott balanced his coffee on the mattress and sat back against the wall, drawing one leg up. "When was it?"

~#~#~#~

Scott didn't feel much like talking on the ride back from town. The truth was he didn't feel like doing much of anything. The whiskey had done its job, but where he was delightfully numb starting out from town, his arm and head were now starting to protest the closer they got to the ranch.

It was Johnny's idea that they take the dead into Morro Coyo and have the sheriff decide what to with them. And along the way, after what was supposed to be a short visit to the saloon, one drink became two, then many more followed after that.

"What's that tune you've got going on?" Johnny drew his horse in beside him, their knees almost touching.

"What?"

"That song you've been hummin' since we left town. Kind of gets in your head and won't let go."

Scott blinked. "I have no idea."

"Well, it reminds me of somethin'."

The answer came to him after a few more miles. It was her song. He had a fleeting glimpse of her working the needle through the colorful threads of her embroidery. He thought about Johnny's story and how it intermingled with his own. The ride—and the company—helped blunt some of his sadness. As they walked their horses under the Lancer arch, Scott found that things weren't so dark after all.

From the wheelhouse, Murdoch watched them ride up. He met them at the corral, his gaze lingering on Scott. "There was trouble at the cabin?"

Scott felt considerably less stable on the ground than he was in the saddle. Murdoch blurred then came into focus again. "Whatever gave you that idea?"

Murdoch peered down, eyes narrowed. His mouth fell open. "You're drunk."

"Yes, Sir, I believe I am."

"Why?"

Scott lifted a shoulder and shrugged. "No special reason. Seemed like a good idea at the time." He turned his attention to the bridle and its very small buckle lying against his horse's cheek. It was proving to be difficult. He overheard Murdoch talking.

"Johnny, is he all right?"

"Aw, leave' im be Murdoch. Sure there's blood, but he got it taken care of at the Doc's." Johnny snickered. "Besides, he's not feeling too much pain right now anyway."

Oh, but he really was. His arm felt on fire all the way down to the fingernails and his head ached from the liquor soaked into his brain. Scott tugged on the bridle one last time, then gave up. "Pardon me; I hate to interrupt the family reunion, but here." He thrust the reins into Murdoch's hand. "I need to find a bed."

Johnny tried to stifle a laugh, but failed.

"You're drunk, too." Murdoch words were snapped out.

Johnny's answering tone was honeyed and drawn out. "Yeah, but not near as much as my brother."

Scott left the two of them to argue and started towards the house, their voices still filtering in and out of his hearing.

"Johnny…what happened?"

"It's his story…Scott'll tell you if he wants to."

And he supposed he would, but not right now. Maybe later…much later. He was grateful for his brother's discretion. Scott felt a tap on his shoulder, then Johnny's hand slid under his elbow.

"Figured I got you to the house, it's on me to get you _inside_ of it, too."

Scott stopped and leaned into Johnny's side. "I'm going to regret this in the morning."

"No you won't."

"Why?"

"Because it's already afternoon."

"Lucky me."

Scott craned his head back to look at Murdoch, left holding the reins of the two horses. A definite frown there. Looking for all the world like he'd been left out of some great joke. "You think he's angry?"

"Nah, just a little confused."

Shifting again, Scott stumbled forward, tripping a bit on the porch landing. "Aren't we all."

Johnny's grip on his arm felt solid, despite the whiskey fumes his brother was exhaling. "Oh, I don't know. Seems like we got a few things straightened out."

He flicked his hand against Johnny's chest. "Amen, brother, amen."

 **Epilogue**

Scott took a tentative sniff. The scent of rosemary drifted about the air. He smiled; Maria must be baking that dish he liked so well. Something to do with chicken, if he remembered correctly.

The afternoon sun was fading behind the mountains and he was feeling lax and fluid from the day's work. Draped in the most comfortable chair he could find, the heat from the adobe wall warmed him until his eyelids were heavy and drooping.

" _You deserve to be happy, Scott."_

 _He looked to the chair across from him. She was looking at him expectantly, her hands folded on her lap._

" _At Lancer?"_

" _With your father and brother. It won't be easy. Johnny's finding his way. He'll need your help, just like you needed his."_

 _Scott thought back to the cabin. "I understand what you were trying to tell me. What I was going to miss."_

 _She shook out the folds of her dress. "So stubborn. You almost threw it away."_

 _It was a rebuke, one he earned. She caught his look and smiled, holding his gaze._

 _Some of the fire left her eyes and she sighed, just a whisper on the breeze. "Troubles are ahead, for all of you. But you're together, and that will make the difference."_

 _Standing to take in the setting sun, she braced her hands against the wrought iron railing. Then she swung around and walked to his side. Her hand moved towards his. He clasped it, feeling the warmth and strength hidden within._

" _It won't be an easy task to make Lancer home. But Son, you're more than equal to it." She patted his hand. "Now go, you're late."_

"Scott! Where are you?"

Johnny's yell startled him awake, the voice echoing through the kitchen. There was the sound of a heavy spoon hitting tile, then Maria let loose a stream of words Scott had no chance of keeping up with. Spanish was not his forte, but he could tell it didn't bode well.

Johnny stuck his head out the door. "What're you doin' out here?" He came out shaking his hand, wriggling the fingers Maria must have caught.

"Just looking."

"Are you comin' to town or not?" Johnny stopped and sniffed. "Hey, it smells good out here, sweet in a way. Like…"

"Like what?"

Johnny looked off to the corral. "Nothin', just something stupid." He eyed Scott and shrugged. "My mama made chicken like that sometimes. It smells sorta like…home."

Scott smiled. He couldn't agree more.

"So let's go, Rose won't wait for me all night."

Stealing one more look at where she had stood, Scott nodded. "I'm right behind you."

The End


	29. Crack Fic: Git Along Little Doggies

Git Along Little Doggies—A Lancer Crack!Fic

It was distracting. He could smell it, from the house. More pungent than a hot brand searing a cow's rump, more alluring than a swim in a mountain spring on a hot summer's day. At least two hundred feet away, but that was nothing.

Scott had a sharp nose and since moving to the big hacienda, the smells were ceaseless: moldy hay, foul sweat and sometimes even blood, accompanied the more muted scents of leather and tobacco, baked bread and lavender.

It was easy to get distracted, though. Cows were designed for only one purpose, to get counted then herded to the next meadow and counted again. Sometimes he counted them three times, just to be sure. As far as he was concerned, the phrase _Lancer takes care of its own_ existed to give Scott license to protect the hacienda and its occupants. He had them under constant surveillance when he wasn't driven to distraction by the cows. The small human—what was her name anyway?—was always dropping bits of bread or bites of beef outside the kitchen door. The wind would catch the scent and it would drift his way, interrupting his count.

Scott heard his name being called over and over—did they not think he heard it the first time? That these ears were just for show? He was a dog for God's sake, he heard everything. And now he'd have to start over again.

A burst of black and white came into his periphery then bounded up beside him. Scott sighed. The black patch around Johnny's eye gave him a roguish look. Accompanied by a "how ya doin'" wink, the expression was deadly to any female within twenty feet. Currently, his eyes were lit with delight, a decidedly dead squirrel hanging from his jowls.

"Hey, Scott. I did it."

The words were garbled until he slid the animal to the side of his mouth. "I got one. Ya wanna look? See? Right here. Yup, finally snagged one of those sons-of-bitches. The old man—what's his name anyway?—yelled at me for being in the house, but I caught this fluffy-tailed shit tryin' to make its way into the kitchen. Sittin' proud as you please on the sideboard, near the small human's hat. So whatchadoin'?" It could have been a serious question, if his brother hadn't been peeing on a spread of withered begonias.

Johnny caught Scott's look of disdain and hiked his leg again. "Let' er buck!" Another stream of yellow hit the flowers, square center. All flash and dazzle, that was Johnny.

"There are other places to do that, you know. Like all those blades of grass the old man owns."

Johnny shrugged and flipped an ear up, giving him a ridiculously puzzled expression. "Whatever. I like these."

"What's-her-name likes them, too. So does the old man."

"Pfft. I'm not afraid of him." He danced on his paws like a fighter, long squirrel tail jiggling back and forth with each bounce. "I'm a lot faster than he is."

The squirrel stared at Scott with glassy yellow eyes from its horizontal flop over Johnny's back molars. Disconcerting to say the least. There was something wrong, but Scott couldn't put his paw on it. "Spit it out," he challenged.

Johnny looked at Scott, his head tilted to the side. Just a little movement, but it said a lot.

"Spit. It. Out."

Johnny's eyebrows met above his eyes. "Try me" was the expression. He smiled and clutched the prize between his teeth, growling. Bits of saliva clung to the squirrel's fur and spattered the ground. "Why? You gonna count it?"

Scott was having none of it. He bunched to jump and that's when he heard the small one screech.

"Murdoch! He has my new fur stole!"

So _that_ was his name.

Wait until they saw the begonias.

The End


	30. The Ride

**No warnings. Originally done for a Summer Challenge at Lancer Writers. What was Johnny riding? ;-)

 **The Ride**

"You ride' im, Scott."

"I already have-once. I brought it home, remember? It's your turn."

"Yeah, Johnny, take a straddle of' im."

"Let's see what you can do, boy!"

"Like I was saying, Johnny Lancer's all talk. Huh, and the man says he can ride anything."

"Shut-up, Arizona. All right, boys, hold' im still. Let me get my foot on the stirrup. Who-ee, let'er buck!"

"Look at' im go!"

"Ride'im, cowboy!"

"Hey, yer takin' im in the wrong direction!"

"Turn its muzzle, boy! Yer too close to the fence!"

"Are you all right, Johnny?"

"Am I dead, Scott?"

"Would I still be here if you were, brother?"

"No, besides I expect something a little prettier than you standing over me when I die. What did you say that critter's name was?"

"I didn't."

"Remind me next time to stay away from that damned wheel…and the tenderfoot that bought it."

Jun/08


	31. All Others Pay Cash

**No warnings. Originally written because I wanted to use the word 'snickerdoodles' in a fic.

All Others Pay Cash

The widow Leticia Flowers glanced up at them from behind the mercantile counter, her eyes narrowing.

"Scott, tell me you didn't forget the money pouch. What about the wagon?"

"I'd sincerely like to do that very thing. And I checked the wagon…twice."

"How'd you get the list, but not the money? Look again."

"I am looking." Scott patted down the front of his coat one more time. "Weren't you supposed to get it off Murdoch's desk?"

"Not gonna happen. You're not pinning this on me." He pulled open Scott's coat to get at the inside pocket. "Did you look in here?"

"Johnny, stop groping me. If I said I don't have it, I don't have it."

"Dios."

"What are we going to do?"

"We could ride back and explain to Murdoch why we didn't pay the bill. Or we could try and buy us some time." Home seemed a long way off without the receipt in hand. "You're the oldest. Go ahead."

"You do it."

"No, you do it."

Scott took his best shot. Spread his smile real wide like he was over at The Gem, sidlin' up to Elizabeth. He frowned. Or was it Holly? The sun wasn't as bright as those teeth once Scott got to workin' them. He chanced a look to Mrs. Flowers.

She wasn't buying Scott's smooth. If anything she tightened up her mouth and something dangerous shadowed her eyes. Scott might as well been shooting blanks into the wind, he had about as much chance of hittin' something. She straightened to her full five feet. A storm was comin'. He took a few steps to the side. The fewer targets she had in her sites, the better.

He was just admiring the glossy black lines of a new carriage light on the shelf, when Scott grabbed his arm and pulled him around to face the counter.

"As I was saying, Mrs. Flowers…Johnny forgot to bring the money." Scott shrugged, his fingers still bruising Johnny's elbow. "You know how these things happen."

Well, shit, his own brother just sold him down the river.

Mrs. Flowers' black eyes flicked to him. The vein in her forehead pulsated, trying to keep up with her mad. He blinked and braced himself.

"Your father is well known in this community. An upstanding citizen." She turned and marched the length of the counter, her hands folded behind her back like one of Scott's generals. Maybe she was gonna let them off the hook.

"Nevertheless, we have our own expenses. And the Lancer bill has come due." Nope.

Scott, still attached like some damn anchor, sagged back. Murdoch was gonna have a fit if they didn't come home with the paid receipt for this month's grain bill. The old man liked things nice and orderly, this was bound to put a crimp in his ledgers.

"However, I can reasonably let it go until tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?" Scott's strangled voice said it all. Runnin' the cows from the east pastures to the north, then the branding-they'd barely made town today, and the list of ranch chores wasn't getting any shorter. Town wasn't happening tomorrow.

"Do you know how long a ride..."

Scott hissed in his ear. "Let it go, Johnny."

He measured Scott's grip on his arm against Murdoch's face when they told him the news. "It's not like we don't have anything else to do except come into town."

Mrs. Flowers stared at him. "Are you rolling your eyes at me, boy?"

Old biddy. "No, ma'am."

"Well don't. It's impolite."

His hand strayed towards his holster. Scott glared and he let it fall back to his side.

Mrs. Flowers reached under the counter to draw out the store's ledger book, her hand caressing the green felt when she set it down on the counter. "This will be the second time Murdoch hasn't paid on time." She eyed them up and down. "It's never been a problem…until lately."

This time Scott bristled, straightening until he pulled his shoulders nice and square then tipped his head to the side. It was a bad sign.

"Madam, what do you mean by lately?"

Yep, Scott was pissed. He grabbed a handful of his brother's sleeve. "Drop it. Leastways, she gave us until tomorrow. Remember last time?" Three months ago, they'd stood outside looking at the 'closed' sign hanging in the window. Late by ten minutes. Murdoch had to sweet talk Mrs. Flowers into opening again. He shivered. Never again.

It looked like he remembered all right-Scott's mouth snapped shut.

He peeked over Scott's shoulder at the crumpled list. "Hey, what about the old man's salve?"

"What?"

"Murdoch's salve…check the list, it's on there."

Scott ticked off each item. "How much for the Dr. Cure-All?"

"One dollar."

Scott felt his coat again then crammed a hand into his front pants pocket. Sixty-five cents. Big spender, his brother. Johnny dug deep in his own coat, more for show than anything. There hadn't been anything in his pockets since last payday. His fingers touched something round and he pulled it out. Huh, a ten cent piece. Grinning, he added it to the money in Scott's palm.

Scott dipped his head. "Seventy-five cents."

"The salve is a dollar. I can hold it until tomorrow when you pay the rest of the bill."

Murdoch needed that medicine. He'd been hunched over for the last two days. "What would we have to do to earn another twenty-five cents?"

Mrs. Flowers' face brightened and lengthened out to a dagger-sharp smile. "You two look to be strapping boys. There's a wagon out back that needs unloading to the barn. It shouldn't take an hour."

Scott closed his eyes, and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Johnny…"

The woman had a curb bit in and was pullin' tight on the reins. "Gettin' the salve would probably smooth out more than Murdoch's stiff back muscles. Maybe that money pouch _you_ left on the table?"

"Where did you say this wagon was located?"

~#~#~#~

One hour later, pushing and pulling the damn thing was looking less and less like a good idea. Swearing, he threw his shoulder into the side of the upright piano. "C'mon, Scott! Pull!"

Scott's face was red. Sweat peaked on his forehead and ran into his shirt collar as he got those long legs under him and heaved. Johnny felt the piano give and it started to roll on the loose straw.

"Pssst…Johnny."

Distracted by the gravel-tinged voice behind him, he straightened. The piano came to an abrupt stop and Scott fishtailed forward into a waiting stall.

"You okay, Scott?" A hand pushed up and out of the straw, waving.

Eyes narrowed against the sun, he studied the pink-cheeked man. He looked like someone's kindly abuelo, after one too many benders.

"You lost, Harlow?"

The old man in front of him laughed hard, patting his pot-belly. "Looks like you could use some help, son." He peered into the barn. "Is that Scott in there?"

Scott had made it up to one knee, shirt hanging off one shoulder, tail flapping out. The red had left his face, but the testiness was still real plentiful.

Resigned to the wait, he leaned back against the piano and took off his hat, wiping the sweat from his eyes. Scott thumped up beside him.

"I see Letty's put you two to work." Harlow's thick eyebrows waggled, making all the white look like so many drifting clouds.

"Letty?"

Harlow cocked his head to the mercantile across the alley. "Mrs. Flowers. Handsome woman, isn't she?" He winked. "Cooks, too."

Now this was gettin' interesting. He shot a look to Scott and could see his brother thinking the same thing. "She's inside."

"Of course she is. Letty has a real head for business."

Scott slapped the dust from his trousers. "She has a definite way of getting her twenty-five cents worth."

Harlow let out a booming laugh. "Why don't I give you boys a hand?"

Johnny studied the bulging belly and the white flowing beard. "Don't you have a jug to find somewhere?"

Harlow leaned in, one finger to his lips, the hundred proof wafting in the air. "I need help with a certain…matter."

Scott sighed. "Why not? We seem to be in a beneficial mood this afternoon. You wouldn't have any spare change would you?"

Surveying the piano, Harlow scratched an ear. "Beneficial…change…?"

Johnny waved the old man off. "Once Scott and I get this thing loaded into the barn, you can help us cover it."

Smiling, Harlow settled himself on the tailgate of the wagon. He pulled out a silver flask and took a quick nip. Then another. Johnny grinned and turned back to the chore at hand.

Forty-five minutes later, with the piano situated in its hidey-hole, Harlow poured off the wagon gate and lurched towards them. He tapped the ivory keys, pounding out a loud tune that sounded half familiar. A flash of color from the window of the mercantile caught Johnny's eye. It was Mrs. Flowers, listening in beside the potted geraniums in the window sill.

" _Clementine_?"

He gave Johnny a friendly slap on the back. "That's right, my boy. _Clementine_." A strange look came into the old man's eye. "Never a sadder song graced the stage."

"Watch it." Scott came up with a big piece of burlap and flung it across the top of the piano.

Harlow fingered the rough material. "How does one secure it in place?"

"Take a hold and bring your end up."

"This is fascinating."

Johnny looked at Scott, who was trying hard not to laugh as he unrolled the twine.

Ten minutes later, they stood back to survey their work.

Harlow nodded. "Well done, boys. It was a pleasure to watch you work. Now I feel we deserve a little reward for our efforts and maybe you could help me with my…ah, delicate situation." He pulled out the flask again, unscrewed its cap and handed it to Scott.

Scott sniffed at the top and took a healthy drink. His eyebrows shot to the top of his head and he pushed the flask in Johnny's direction.

Since he couldn't think of any reason not to, he tossed back a drink and managed to choke out a gasp. It was fire and nitro combined.

Harlow grinned wide and long. "By God, that's the stuff boys! I like seeing men who can hold their liquor!" He slapped Scott's back on his way to the barn's tack room. Sputtering once, Scott grabbed on to the burlap-covered piano.

Harlow came back with a package under one arm and a second bottle. "Have another! There's plenty." He waved the liquor in the air, looking happy for the company.

They arranged hay bales in a semi-circle around the piano and when liquor was poured into his flask cap, Johnny tipped it upwards. Scott was doing his level best with what was in the second bottle. He turned to the old man. "So what's your problem?"

"Wait a minute." Harlow peeled off the lid of the tin he brought back from the tack room. "Try one of these. Manna from heaven."

Cookies. There were a dozen or so plump, sugary cookies looking back at him. He reached in and snagged one. The cinnamon hit his taste buds the minute he bit into it. _Delicioso_. He took another bite just as the first was sliding down his throat. "What kind are these?"

Scott mumbled around his own cookie. A few crumbs spit out to his shirt. "Snickerdoodles."

"What?" He reached over to tap Scott's knee. "Come on, you made that up."

"No, we call them snickerdoodles back east. And these are wonderful." Scott's smile was outlined by flecks of sugar as he chased it down with a swig from his bottle.

"They taste a little like biscochitos." At Scott and Harlow's looks, he shrugged. "Um…Mexican snickerdoodles. Gimme another."

He swallowed and swiped the crumbs off his lap. "So this problem wouldn't have anythin' to do with Mrs. Flowers, would it?"

"Quite astute, my boy." Harlow leaned in and whispered. "It's indeed a matter of the heart."

"Any man who has a woman making these kind of cookies for him, doesn't need any help in gettin' her to the alter."

"I just need something to…tip the scales, so to speak. Look at me. I have nothing to offer her."

He stared at Harlow. The old man didn't seem the type for long rides under a full moon. Or maybe Mrs. Flowers didn't seem the type. The trouble was he was having a devil of a time deciding exactly what the biddy _would_ like-besides her accounts paid in full. It was a sad day when the wants of a woman couldn't be figured out.

Scott spoke up, sounding far away. "What about flowers?"

"Letty's allergic to everything except geraniums. And she has those in her window box already."

Hiccupping, Scott rubbed his hand across his face. "Dancing?"

"I never learned."

"Well, what about…you play the piano, how about a song?" Scott swung his head around. "Johnny, do you have anything?"

"Hell, Harlow, just ask her."

Scott nodded and held up his bottle in salute. "Love is blind."

Harlow squinted up at the ceiling of the barn. "Ah yes, Shakespeare's _Merchant of Venice_ …act two, scene four. " _But love is blind, and lovers cannot see…"_

Scott joined in. _"The pretty follies that themselves commit…"_

It must have been the whiskey. It didn't seem odd at all sitting in the barn talking about snickerdoodles and listening to the old man and Scott quote Shakespeare. A laugh worked its way up-he clamped his lips-but it bubbled out anyway. As he downed another capful, he heard the half-door behind him slide open and a shy voice peal out.

"… _For if they could, Cupid himself would blush…"_

"Letty!" Harlow stood.

The widow stood just outside the door, clutching the side of it in one hand, a blush of her own working up.

"My dear. Shakespeare? I never knew." The old man hot-footed it over and planted a kiss on her cheek. The biddy turned into a school girl and colored even more.

Scott looked at him and motioned towards the door.

Outside the barn, they bumped each other and sat down on the boardwalk-a snickerdoodle crumb-filled tin and one-quarter of a bottle left between them.

Scott ran a hand through his hair. "I can't feel my head."

"We should've eaten somethin' other than cookies."

There were giggles, both male and female, coming from the livery.

"Dios. You think they'll stay in there all night?"

"I hope not. It's a long ride back to Lancer and we still haven't got Murdoch's medicine."

"Yeah. It was a real good idea to pay her up front without getting the salve."

Scott looked at him with bleary eyes. "Just like it was a good idea to offer unloading the sight unseen wagon in the first place. A piano! Good God."

"You gotta admit Harlow has a good thing goin' here. Mrs. Flowers…who would've thought?" He lifted the bottle to the waning sun and watched the light catch and sparkle on the back door of the mercantile. "Maybe we can work this out in our favor."

Scott's eyes narrowed. "How so?"

"Well, she might be grateful that we got her hooked up with old Harlow."

"I'm not following."

"The grain receipt, remember?"

"And…?"

"And maybe she'll let it ride until next month. You know, grateful and all."

The door to the barn opened, Harlow and Letty walked out, fingers touching.

Scott shook his head. "It's a stretch, Johnny."

~#~#~#~

The mercantile counter bobbed and weaved in a dangerous way. Johnny caught and held onto the edge of it while Mrs. Flowers wrapped up Murdoch's medicine, packaging it with a smile this time and nestling it against a smaller bag of cookies.

Carrying the bags out to the wagon, she waited until Scott got situated with the reins before handing the medicine and cookies up.

"For the ride home." Harlow smiled wide and handed over the silver flask. "It's been refilled."

It was now or never. He leaned across Scott, and looked her straight in the eye. "About tomorrow, Ma'am…the receipt…"

"Oh yes!" She nodded at him then sent a knowing look to Harlow. "Come early, I think the store may be closed in the afternoon."

Scott huffed out a laugh and pushed him back in his seat. The alcohol and sugar clouded his vision a little, making Harlow and Letty fuse together in a funny shape of color and smiles. Johnny let out a sigh as the wagon lurched forward. Love may sure enough be blind, like Scott said, but that Leticia Flowers was still a real good businesswoman.

The End


	32. Hyde n' Shriek

**Another favorite of mine. Based very loosely on the classic Bugs Bunny cartoon called Hyde and Hare, but a bit darker. No warnings.

Hyde N' Shriek

"We should have gone around the river," Johnny said. Probably said, Scott was guessing. It was difficult to understand the words slurred around the caramel stuffed into Johnny's mouth. To Scott, it sounded more like "shoot the gun down the drivel" which he was fairly certain Johnny would never say. It didn't help his brother was looking around the store like a bedraggled, wet retriever in search of a lost duck. A grin spiked, despite the pain that flared up his arm.

Johnny angled his weight to one leg, leaving the other one free to tap out a rhythm between spur and floorboards. "Sheepshank." He strung the ee's with a deceptive old boy twang. The second syllable hurried out in a rush, as if it couldn't wait to join its companion hanging in the air.

Well. That was clear enough. As clear as the other ten times it was said. Johnny wasn't even looking at him, just moving the wad of caramel around his molars like Hump with a mound of green alfalfa. Scott threw another piece of candy at him from the jar.

Johnny caught it mid-flight, plucked the chew out of its wrapper, and crammed it into his mouth, choking out a meaty laugh.

He braced his hands on his hips, ignored the cold-warm slippery feel of his wet holster. "You were the one giving directions."

"Not for the supplies," Johnny returned, "all going into the river, because someone didn't tie a…" His eyes flicked from bolts of fabric to the barrel of crackers back to Scott. Didn't say anything further. His lips though, pursed. Started to form the "sh" sound.

It was going to be his last. With the litany of _sheepshanksheepshank_ bouncing through his mind like an errant metronome, he thought to abandon Johnny to the store and face plant into the nearest, cleanest bed available. Being near eclipsed clean as far as he was concerned at this point.

Scott sighed, looked down to his shredded lower sleeve. Couldn't stop the smile when he saw Johnny's bandana—a new favorite—wrapped around his forearm. A fancy blue and white number, it had shown up encircled around Johnny's neck after a date in Green River with an old friend. Funny how the old friend smelled like lemon verbena. But now it was a mess, stained with blood, mud and something black that Scott couldn't identify. Not like he wanted to know anyway.

Still, they weren't but four hours from home, how could everything turn to…

"Maybe it's the rain," Johnny suggested, as if Scott had spoken aloud. "Came outta nowhere."

He swept clinging bangs away from his forehead. "Maybe." At least they had found the town of New London, despite the turning weather and gathering night. Now if they could only find the clerk. The small handmade sign beside the straw brooms declared the proprietor was Hazel Witczak.

A thready voice, humming in an off-key melody, floated out to them from a curtained off back room. "A cup of nettle, a pinch of bee pollen, some garlic for you."

Scott wandered down the counter, filled his nostrils with the scent of green things and coffee beans. Both made his mouth water. "Madam?"

An elderly woman popped out between the two curtains like a jack-in-the box, one pink claw of a hand clutching the pearl brooch at the center of her collar. "My, I didn't realize I had guests." She swept out in a flutter of muslin skirt and two dropped hair pins, pulled to a stop and stared.

"Ooh, an accident. How in-teresting." She cocked her head like a pigeon sighting a June bug and reached for Scott's bloodied arm.

He backed into a shelf of oil lanterns, then smiled, not with his teeth, and slid to the right.

"You poor thing." Both hands went to the frayed edges of her sweater, fiddled with the twin buttons there. "Does it hurt…overly much?"

A bad feeling shivered up his spine, lodged itself in the pricked hairs of his neck. "Miss Witczak?"

She blinked twice, dragged her eyes away from his ripped sleeve. "Yessss?"

"Is there a doctor in town?"

Grey eyebrows arched. "A doctor?"

Johnny came up beside him with a halfway grin, but only flashed on one side, where he probably thought Scott couldn't see it. "Yeah." He did a little head tilt. "For my brother, he cut arm."

"Ooh, is that how it happened?" Bright eyes turned and she muttered a few unsettled cooing noises that made Scott want take another step sideways.

Recognition of something odd dawned and Johnny cricked his neck in a way that drove Scott crazy. "Um, yeah. Where is he?"

"I could take a look at it for you," she burbled, claws twisted the opal buttons spasmodically.

Scott drew his arm in close. "No."

Miss Witczak's brow crumpled. "No?" She stretched the last vowel out, and it hit two or three tones. "Are you sure?"

"Quite." Maybe they didn't want the doctor, either. He gestured to the door. "Come on, Johnny. We need to go."

"If you're positive I can't help, go see Henry. His office isn't more than four doors down on the left. But you need to hurry; he likes to be home by this time."

"Is Henry a _people_ doctor?" Trust his brother to check for any loopholes.

"Why yes, Dr. Jecklin sees only people."

Johnny shifted his weight, studied the situation from all four sides. "How bad do you want to see this guy?" And came up empty, apparently.

Scott shrugged. "Let me put it this way: are you expecting to ever get this bandana back? I need stitches." He waved away Johnny's look. "And no, you're not doing them."

"He's a lovely young man. A very proper doctor, Henry even went to school," she prompted.

A step up from Green River, then. Miss Witczak's sterling recommendation aside, his arm burned in an unhealthy manner. He cleared his throat. "Thank you, madam. You've been most…helpful." He could feel Johnny's eyes cut to him, incredulous.

She beamed. "Have I?"

Scott did a curt nod and turned to leave.

"Oh boys!" She was chipper as a snake-oil salesman in a crowd of believers. "Tell Henry I have almost all his ingredients ready for the next batch."

Scott didn't feel it was necessary to clarify the whats and the whys, just tapped Johnny's shoulder before _he_ could ask, and edged towards the door. He shivered again, and didn't think it was from the cut on his arm.

The doctor's office was indeed four doors down the boardwalk, his name cheerily written in cursive across the frosted glass pane.

Dr. Jecklin was the sort of non-descript man who begged the question: don't I know you? From somewhere? It started with his not quite blond, but not brown, hair. Ended with his sturdy, worn at the heels, functional boots. And in between his sea glass green eyes, trapped behind a pair of thick spectacles. They held intelligence, and a bit of consternation, at finding two men on his doorstep.

Jecklin ushered them in, asked their names, about the wound, what happened, where, how long ago. Miss Witczak was right after all, he seemed competent enough.

The doctor's eyebrow pinged upwards when Johnny casually mentioned they were brothers. The look of disbelief. Every single time. No we don't look anything alike, don't even think alike, but we're still brothers, thank you very much.

Jecklin had a gentle, feather-light touch as he fingered the wound. "Oh dear, this looks like an ever so bad wound. It will need stitches."

Scott looked at Johnny and smirked. A silent told you so.

The doctor opened a cabinet and rustled through boxes and bottles. He tcched and shook his head. "This will never do."

Scott's smile fled. "What's wrong?"

"My supplies are all used up. I'll need to get more from my surgery. And you'll need some ointment, to ward off infection. Mr. Lancer, it looks like you have to come home with me."

Blue stare from the table, then a grin pulling at his lips, smooth and easy. His brother hadn't said sheepshank once since they'd been in the doctor's office, but Scott had thought it a hundred times. Damn Johnny.

#-#-#-#-#

Johnny had been around, seen what there was to see. One time in Rosarito an old man invited him into a brown-grey adobe hut made of straw and mud. Best fatback and pintos he'd ever eaten. Was in a frame house in Amarillo when the roof snapped off with the stiff panhandle wind. Sat in a parlor with Miss Louise and her girls in Modesto. The kiln-fired red brick house was etched with mortar, and as sturdy as the rest of the furniture in the house he'd had occasion to use. Then Murdoch's—and his and Scott's—hacienda. No trifle there.

So he figured the doc's house had to be somewhere in the middle.

They eased their horses to a walk up the short hill. Almost twilight now, there'd be a moon if the clouds would scatter. His belly rumbled, empty. Mercantile candy didn't quite do the trick as dinner was nada, with a side of sludge. Too bad Scott didn't tie off the supplies with…. He clamped his lips together to stop the word from coming out. Didn't want to whip up his brother any more than what he was.

Scott already had that twitchy look about him—a line around his mouth that made his face go hard, real _intent_. Sometimes, he felt obliged to work up a frenzy or two, just to prove that Scott wasn't so smart all the time. He bit down on the side of his mouth, couldn't stop the smile. Grew it until his cheeks hurt and he knew his brother was looking at him.

The doc's carriage rounded a corner. As he and Scott did the same, a sprawling house came into view. Fine tongue and groove maple shingles. Four tiled dormers poked out of the roof, each with crisscrossed glass windows filled in with curtains. A wrap-around porch with a few rockers. Even had two pots of red geraniums sitting out, soaked and drooping with the recent rain.

There was something about the place. Swanky, but not showy. Quality. The wooden Doctor sign hung at a right angle to the house on a brace of metal, jiggling a little with the breeze. He expected a squeak, but there wasn't one, just the gentle roll of white letters with each bounce. Whatever he figured the doc's house to be, he was wrong.

And didn't that beat all.

The inside was as tidy as the doc in his brown coat and tie. Jecklin looked like one of those men from the Sunday-go-to- church crowd. Not a hair out of place, steady. No wife, money all shoved into the house with taste left over for some Indian rugs and a big piano. But plain as water, which was what he offered. Water. Like they needed more of that. Scott almost coughed, but held it back and managed a polite 'no thanks'.

A plaster bust of a man's head sat on a pedestal. Drew Johnny in like a fly to honey. All shiny and white. It had writing on it and numbers.

"It's Greek, you know. For my study on the psyche." The doc sidled up, his voice taking on a quaver that could charge right into excitement. "My specialty."

"You dealing in skulls? Not much money in it, is there?"

"No, Mr. Lancer, the brain. The beautiful mind that holds so many secrets to man's deepest, darkest desires." Johnny wasn't sure of the etiquette, but braced himself, because it wasn't making sense.

Scott's eyebrows shot up in puzzlement, caution.

Jecklin clasped his hands together. "Well, I must gather my equipment. I'll be just a moment. Make yourselves at home." He nodded and disappeared through a doorway. Shut the door for good measure. Which made Johnny want to open it to see what was going on in there. Instead, he ran his hand around the skull, outlined the odd etchings with two fingers. It was cold and smooth under his calluses.

Scott sat down on the piano bench. Silent.

"What do you think?" Johnny whispered loudly, made it go across the room. The place just seemed to call for it.

"I think he has excellent taste in music." Scott pointed to music sheet on the piano with big black lettering—Chopin's Waltz—splashed across it.

"Come on."

Scott didn't look at him, ran his fingers along the white keys, not really pressing down. Figuring out the notes. "I say we get this done and depart New London as soon as it's over."

"I guess we agree on that." He turned to look out the window, flicked open the panel of curtain as the song got louder, surer. Spots of rain flew against the pane, while the wind kicked the doc's sign into a seesaw. It was gonna be a long ride back home.

Scott missed a note, but it was a shift in the air that had him turning around.

He had big muscles popping out from the rolled sleeves of his white shirt. Ropey sinew. Dark blond hair was mussed, spangled with something wet. His face pulled in anger, mouth crooked to one side. Looked like a wild man, walked liked an animal. No hesitation. All pad, pad, pad. Right towards Scott. A tendril of fear crept up Johnny's spine, gave him a little shake.

"Hey," he started, as the big man took another step. Got Scott's attention at least and he swung around and off the piano bench to stare.

Neck as thick as Johnny's thigh, the man cocked his head, studied him, then smiled. A curve of pale lip, just a hint of white incisor and Johnny shuddered. It was something out of his childhood. The man's green eyes were shadowed…hungry. A pause and he drew his tongue across his lips, took a step back when Johnny's hand hovered over his gun. The man straightened and stepped quickly to the door of the surgery, slipped inside and closed it with a thud.

"Ah…," Scott said, standing still and alert at Johnny's elbow. "I don't think that was a wise thing to do."

"Which thing?" Quiet tension wound round, like a coiled greased lariat primed for throwing. "Not letting him kill you or letting him go?"

"We'd bett…"

Scott's words were cut off as sounds came from behind the door. A splintering yowl. A shatter of glass.

They ran to the door and opened it. Jecklin was behind a desk, sprawled and panting. Johnny reached his hand out to him.

"Doc, you okay?"

"Yes, I must have tripped over something."

He found the doctor's glasses and handed them over. "Where'd he go?"

"He? A man was here?" A sheen of panic and Jecklin shook his head like a rabid dog trying to get rid of foam. "Oh dear, oh dear. He's of no consequence. An associate. He helps with my experiments from time to time. I'm sorry if he scared you."

Scott had gone out the back door of the office when they found Jecklin and now was back, empty handed. His arm though, wore a fresh coat of red.

"Hey doc," he made a gesture towards Scott, "do you think…?"

"By all means. Please sit down, Mr. Lancer."

Scott slumped into a chair, looked grateful to be off his feet.

Jecklin took off the bandana and tsk'ed. "How did this happen again?"

"There was a question of how to tie supplies on a horse, and I managed to get the answer wrong."

Johnny watched Scott's sliver grin. The doc mixed the contents of an envelope into a bottle of water. As the deep slash was irrigated, the grin faded and Johnny felt a twinge of guilt.

A needle and thread was brought out from the drawer and Scott swallowed loud enough to be heard. "Doctor, will you be tying a sheepshank or some other kind of knot? I have it on good authority that a sheepshank is the most reliable method of keeping one's things…together."

Johnny shook his head, and touched the bandana. "Well, this'll never come clean. You had to go and bleed on it?" And that made Scott laugh, as intended.

"Johnny, will your old friend be terribly angry?"

"She's sort of a new old friend. Her name is…" Beatrice, he thought, as Scott grimaced in pain when the doc's needle punctured skin.

It took a half an hour of prodding, inspecting, some smelly ointment and finally wrapping before Scott was good to leave. Only the doc didn't seem to want to be alone. He puttered, cleaning each instrument and easing them back into the cabinet, taking his sweet time.

It was time—past time—to be leaving. Johnny stood up from his stool. "How much do we owe? We should be going now."

"The weather is dreadful outside," Jecklin suggested and Johnny knew where that was going.

"Don't worry about us, we'll find shelter for the worst of the rain. It's almost over anyhow." He hoped. "Besides, we're close to home as it is." He looked to Scott for agreement. A nod. Or anything.

"You have a lot of different books here," and Scott raised an eyebrow.

Shit. He knew that eyebrow, the look that went with it. Scott was thinking things out. Wasn't leaving until he had cleared up the mystery.

The doctor turned to look at the wall to ceiling bookcase, waved a hand. "My interests are varied, Mr. Lancer." Thunder cracked so loud the glass in the windows vibrated. "Stay the night. I've plenty of rooms and it's been so long since I've had company."

Scott nodded and Johnny saw the gleam in his brother's eyes as he followed Jecklin into the hallway and to the stairs. Happy enough at finding all those books. Cozying up to the doc to see what was what, his arm forgotten.

On their way, they stopped by the library. More books. It was a wonder the doc had any time for doctoring. And a closed off area, with a big mahogany door. Laboratory, he mentioned. Throwing it out as if everyone had one. They passed by without opening it and Johnny could see Scott's shoulders deflate.

"Did you have this house built?" Scott asked into the gloom of the hallway, and the doctor's head bobbed as he fumbled for a toggle switch above the stair banister. Sconces flared all the way up the stairs and onto the second floor.

Jecklin turned. "The lights are gas. A fit of vanity." He smiled. "They're the first in the town. And, yes, I did have this house built to my very own specifications."

That explained…not one thing. Maybe he inherited the money, came from rich folk. Kept the big man on for protection. Small man like the doc could maybe use a little help now and then. Too nice, probably got rode like an old mule most of the time. But big and ugly was runnin' around the house somewhere.

He latched onto Scott's shirt sleeve, pulled hard and Scott sent his elbow back into Johnny's ribs. I'm trying to understand all this, give me room is what it meant. Funny, a year ago he wouldn't have given a tinker's damn for the man with the bowler hat stepping off the Morro Coyo stagecoach, and now they could talk without saying a word.

"Must have taken quite a bit of time," Scott started the conversation again, face relaxed into bland interest. His poker face. Meant he was two cards ahead of everyone else.

Maybe the doc was used to getting grilled by people he didn't know. Or maybe the doc didn't care his brother was asking questions that at any other time would have got him yelled at, run off or shot.

Jecklin opened a door. "Time is what I have very little of, Mr. Lancer." He held a key in his hand, dangled it from his fingertips. "Fleeting ever more each day, I'm afraid. I'll have your horses brought into the barn."

"We like to take care of our own horses," Johnny interrupted. No one except a Lancer was going to touch Barranca.

The doctor nodded. "The barn is around back. Have a good rest." Jecklin stopped and stared. "Rest is good for the soul."

The door closed and Johnny raised his eyebrows. "You done?"

Scott shook his head. "Something's not right here; you know it as well as I do."

"Shouldn't we be heading for home? Murdoch'll be looking for us."

"He won't be expecting us until tomorrow at the earliest. Don't tell me you're not curious about that man in the parlor."

The man who walked like an alley cat, everything loose and tight at the same time. "El cucuy."

"El…what?"

"El cucuy. My mama used to tell me stories about him." Threatened. She had told him that if he was ever bad, a monster would come and take him away. To eat him.

"A child's story?"

He shook the memories away. "Yeah. Never mind."

Scott shrugged, touched a hanging crystal from the lamp beside the bed, sent it swinging. "Let's take a look around." He turned to look at Johnny pointedly. "And we still have the horses to put away for the night."

Johnny leaned back until his shoulders and head were against the wood of the door, and wished that they'd never stumbled upon New London or Dr. Jecklin. A howl came from outside and rattled against the windowpane. It sounded cold and needful.

#-#-#-#-#

"Johnny," Scott called out and watched as his brother pulled up, a shadow against the firelight, thumbs hooked into his holster belt, the picture of long-suffering patience. "Look at these books." He couldn't see Johnny's expression in the half-light, and that was probably a good thing.

"What else is there to do in a library?" Johnny sounded prickly, had that tone.

"But these aren't ordinary." He wanted to add that they were as far from Beadle and Adam's dime novel _Maleaska, the Indian Wife of the White Hunter,_ as a book could get, but refrained. 

Most of the volumes were old with weathered spines and yellowed pages. Some in French, others in Greek. Scientific journals mixed with philosophers and mystics. He passed over a Primer on Magick, a treatise by Nietzche and gravitated towards a play by Johan Strindberg then decided on a particularly well-worn, moth-eaten book and pulled it from the shelves. "The Alchemist's Desire". The rather lurid title grabbed his attention and he took it to the light pouring out from the fireplace.

Peered at the strange cursive that promised rejuvenation and when he turned the page to see more, the corner shredded off in his hands. The book was damaged. He'd seen the look Jecklin gave to Johnny after his soul comment, and didn't care for it. Even though Johnny sometimes—often—courted the look, Scott never liked it when other men insinuated Johnny was something less than he was. He pressed closer to the flames to see the rest of the passage and briefly thought about what the good doctor would do if he set the tome on fire.

"Come here." Scott called out again, his voice rising above the rain beating against the windows. This time Johnny turned. He was thinking so hard Scott could almost hear the words.

"And see what? Another book?"

"Do you know what alchemy is?"

"What Sam does in his office? Mixing up pills and powders?"

"Something of the sort. But this goes even further. There are recipes in here for transformation. To change a person."

A snort of amusement. "Change him into a what? A dog?"

"No, transform him into something he wants to be."

"Why would a man have to go through all that? If he wants to be somethin' else, why not just do it?"

Scott ignored the questions because—really—he didn't have an answer for them. He read the rest of the section. "It says the elixir can help mend the inferno crisis. Meld good and evil intentions into one when the psyche has split them into two."

Johnny cut the air with his hand. "Are you sayin' that man we saw has a problem with his head?"

"Quite possibly."

"So the doc is helping him with…" Johnny made a circle motion beside his ear.

"But this one needs human blood to seal the connection between the two parts." _To compleat the soul_ , as it was written in the book. He didn't think his brother needed to hear that.

"Huh." Johnny looked thoughtful and shifted from foot to foot, his spurs making a muted jingle in the carpeted library. "We need to get out of here."

He snapped the book closed and threw it to the ottoman beside the hearth. "The sooner the better."

Scott took a candle from the mantel and lit it from the fire. The house was closed up and dark, they couldn't risk the gas lights. He held the candle at waist length, momentarily afraid he'd misstep in the gloom. He and Johnny weren't going up the stairs again, but the front door posed a problem—was it to the right or left at the end of the long hallway?

"Wait a minute. Why didn't the doc take your blood? There was enough of it on the table when he was patching you up." Johnny's words came from behind him, whispery thin in the quiet.

"I don't think it's my blood he's after." Scott sighed, knowing Johnny had come to the same conclusion. "I'm sorry for having us stay here," he began softly. When there was no answer, Scott was sure he'd hit the crux of Johnny's agitation. Wonderful. He forged ahead, tiptoeing down the hall. Mentally calculating how much fence line and other chores he'd have to put in for it all to be forgiven and forgotten. When it got to be over a month, he quit. "Look, we'll get back home and…" He chanced a glance back into the dark, half afraid he'd find his brother's angry face, but couldn't see it. Johnny was no longer behind him.

Chapter Two

Johnny watched Scott's light bob down the hallway, heard him mutter something about the house and stitches. He was through listening. Bad enough they had to sneak out to leave. If they left like he wanted to do an hour ago, they could have walked out the door easy. Besides, the doc's laboratory was open. He saw the sliver of opening when the candle light threw a shadow against the wall.

Couldn't resist. He had two fingers on the knob, ready to turn. Behind him came soft crumplings from leather and cloth, a footfall. A meat hook of a hand snaked over his shoulder like a rat.

"You came." The voice was a soft caress against his ear.

Johnny made a grab for his gun, knocking the picture on the wall beside the door with his elbow. The whole panel lurched and turned, pivoted into a sharp circle. It all happened so fast he didn't have time to open his mouth, could only hang on.

Then his world exploded into a flash of white-hot light.

Johnny blinked his eyes and the room spun. It was all blurry at first, couldn't focus on anything except the flare of a match coming from the table. He listened to his own breathing for a while, staring at the bit of brightness. Felt down his hip and found his holster. The gun was gone, of course.

"There you are." The voice slid around. It was different than before—Doctor Jecklin? A stone floor, he thought, as the doc's boots made a thumping sound when he came beside the cot. The smell of wet peat made him think of an underground cellar. Were they in the laboratory or someplace else?

Blood, Johnny remembered. _Blood_. He sat up slowly and could hear rushing in his ears, like he'd been running a ways.

Jecklin scrubbed his hand against his cheek. "How do you do it, Mr. Lancer?"

"Do what?"

The doc looked tired and frazzled, his hair set at all angles. "I've treated men like you before. The gun belt, the way you carry yourself. You're a pistolero—isn't that the word?"

Johnny couldn't take his eyes off him, didn't know what might happen, what might come loose. "What's this all about?"

The doctor leaned in, pushed his glasses higher up on his nose. "How do you control both halves?"

He felt the side of his head and found a sore spot, already warm and rising. He was getting mad now. "There's no two halves. Just me."

He wanted to let Scott know what was going on, because his brother would think it was funny. Or maybe Scott'd think the doc was loony, like that drummer who stopped at the ranch proclaiming he could hypnotize cattle. Loony was a good word for it.

"I can't stop him anymore." And right there, the doctor looked lost, moving in circles when he should have marched straight ahead.

Outside the wind picked up, beat at the windows like it wanted to get inside.

"Your boy could use a little work, doc. He's the one who needs patched together, before someone gets hurt. Really hurt."

Jecklin was getting riled up, bouncing on his toes, eyes roved to the table and back again. Johnny looked and there was his gun, sitting as pretty as you please on top of an open book.

Something shifted in the man, across his face. It was like two windows sliding against each other. He stumbled back towards the table, behind the chair. Johnny blinked, felt light headed for a second. The doc looked different somehow, but maybe it was just a trick of the dim light.

There was a noise, a terrible gargling like someone was drowning. No, something was fighting to get out.

Johnny jumped to his feet, made a play for his gun, but there was a wild rush of air and he was knocked away. A strong arm clamped round his neck, yanked him upwards.

The door flew open and there stood Scott, all General Grant, with his legs braced wide in the doorway. No poker face now, the narrowed eyes and heavy frown spoke loud and clear. All he needed was a flag and a damn horse. He was breathing hard, the candle still clutched in one hand, his thirty-five in the other.

Johnny pivoted on the balls of his feet, sagged in the closing grip, and heard the crack of Scott's pistol. The man vibrated for a second, like thunder against a window pane, then dropped. Johnny didn't want to turn.

When he did, the doc was on the ground, shoulder creased and bloodied. Johnny just stared, and Scott came up behind him.

"Pulled my shot high," Scott said, breathless. "As soon as you moved. It—he changed."

Jecklin raised his head then lowered it back down to the hard floor. His left hand drifted up to his chest and lay there. "Did I hurt you?" he whispered.

"Doc?"

"Did I hurt you?" His voice was louder, demanding.

Johnny knelt down beside him. "No, I'm fine."

The doctor closed his eyes for a moment then opened them. "I never meant for this to happen. My experiments..." Softly, no heat there, just remorse.

They moved him to a sitting position, poured out water from a jug on the table and pressed a wet cloth to his wound.

He pushed their hands away. "You saved me, when I wanted…"

Johnny shook his head. "We didn't save you, doc. You did it yourself."

There was a silence and they stared at each other. An expression on his face that Johnny couldn't quite make out, because it held so much: anger, sorrow, fear, guilt. Jecklin finally looked away.

"So," Scott began.

"Yeah."

"We should…"

"Let's go," Johnny agreed.

#-#-#-#-#

Scott considered the trail, because it was easier than what he had witnessed in the doctor's cellar. A straightforward line to follow, no questions, no thinking involved. But the books, the potions, the experiments…the creature. He didn't see it coming. Because if he had, they'd have galloped off in the opposite direction, bleeding arm or no.

"I hate rain," Johnny said loudly, above the tap-tap-tap of drops on the brim of his hat and shoulders.

"You could go back to Jecklin's house, ask for our old room back." Scott didn't look over, smothered his smile. "I'm sure he'd be more than happy to oblige."

Johnny squinted at him. "What?"

Scott kept his face solemn. "Maybe the two—make that three—of you could have a few drinks, play a round of cards. It would be interesting." Scott could feel the simmer coming from Barranca.

"Not sure I heard you right. The rain's pretty loud. You wanna repeat what you just said?"

"You're not a monster." He said it seriously and saw Johnny's hands had stilled over the saddle horn.

"You think I don't know that? I'm not the one runnin' around trying to get people's blood."

And that was as close as Johnny was going to get to the subject.

"That's not what I meant," he tried again after a few minutes.

"Sure it's what you meant," Johnny said. Because if that's what it was, he could manage it. But if they were going to bring up anything about his gun fighting past and all that went on—the good and the evil, and there was plenty of both from what Scott could tell—well, that wasn't going to happen. They'd been down this road before.

Scott shook the rain from his coat. "I'm pretty hungry."

Johnny played the reins between his fingers, in and out and around, like a coin trick. "I'll second that. What about town?"

"And take the chance of meeting Hazel again? No, thanks. I'd rather go without food. But that means we won't be able to replace our supplies that were lost in the river." Scott glanced at Johnny, but Johnny didn't say a thing. Just grinned.

The End

10/31/2012

Revised: 10/20/13


	33. What Polonius Said

_L'amour est dans l'air (trans: love is in the air). A Murdoch story._

 **What Polonius Said**

 _Two weeks earlier:_

The stage came to a rollicking stop in front of the depot at Green River, tipping everything not tied down either forward or backward depending on one's sitting arrangements. For Corrine it was backwards and she watched in horror as the fat drummer across the aisle left his seat and went momentarily airborne. Adrienne flung out her gloved hand and yanked her to safety just as the man landed, half on the floor, and half on the seat she had just vacated.

While altogether happy with the outcome, she was irked nonetheless. Nothing like this ever happened to Adrienne. There she sat, tugging her grey kid gloves back into place, the blue feather from her hat still curved around the apple of her cheek. The very same feather Corrine had put on the hat in the first place. It was the height of current fashion and looked stunning with her sister's light complexion. She pulled her own hat back to the top of her head and adjusted the pins.

No, nothing ever flustered Adrienne which was probably a good thing, given her profession. But there was an apprehensive look in her sister's eyes, even as she flashed a coquettish smile at the drummer, who pinked under her stare.

Corrine knew what her sister was thinking because she had thought about it every day since leaving San Francisco.

Their allotted six months was almost at an end.

Au revoir, indeed. Her heart gave a little bump of joy.

~o~o~o~

 _Current Day:_

Murdoch's mind was full. Crowded, even. Everything flying up, pinging around in his skull, buzzing like bees around a marigold. His time at the bank checking on a few investments was unproductive, only adding to the swirly mix already in his head.

He crossed the street, aiming for the café with the red sign out front: La Jolie Dame. The owner called it that, the rest of Green River's inhabitants mispronounced it as The Jolly Dame. An unfortunate name which stuck to the sunny eatery with alacrity.

He was looking at the café, not minding his steps when he stumbled into something. Make that someone. "I'm sorry, Miss. I didn't see you."

She laughed, a splendid sound that was full and rich, curling his innards like a snifter of genuine Glen Ord. A feather from her hat fell across her forehead, but Murdoch could see grey eyes underneath, crinkled with mirth.

"Oh, pardon, Monsieur! Excusez-moi," she said, giving him a beautiful smile, all white teeth and dimples.

She patted his arm in an apologetic way then strode to the boardwalk. With a single glance backwards she gifted him that beautiful smile again and disappeared around the corner in silk and lace.

He pushed open the red door that went with the red sign and started to make his way to a far table when Del's voice rang out.

"Don't sit there, Murdoch, I've got a party of six coming in."

He looked around the vacant café. "Really?"

Del looked crestfallen. "No. I just wanted to see how it would sound saying that out loud. Pick any chair you want, you're my first customer of the day."

Murdoch chose one by the window and picked up the menu from between the salt and pepper shakers. He glanced at the offerings and couldn't help but chuckle.

Del arrived, coffee pot in hand. "What's so funny?"

"It's just that this kind of thing doesn't go so well out here. Filet of beef with olives. Anchovies. These are plain folks here, Del. If you were aiming for San Francisco, you missed by a few miles." Murdoch thought it over and tried to come up with something positive. "Scott seems to like it every time he stops by, though."

"Now that's a kid with taste. I may have overshot my mark here, but you have to try, right?"

"Why did you leave New York?"

"It's the same-old, same-old. Wanted to branch off from the family, make my own way."

Murdoch understood. It was the very same when saw America as a new world, full of riches to be gained. Not only riches though, the desire to see something new, to do something no one else in the family had done before was just as strong.

"Between you and me? I think I may go back. Pops isn't doing so well and he's been after me to run the restaurant back home." He shrugged. "I guess there's worse things than working with family, right?"

Del poured and Murdoch settled in with his first cup. He nudged it around his saucer, bumping his tongue around his teeth every now and then, tasting something different in the beans, but not able to put his finger on what.

The sun was high in the window, letting in some warmth and he ought to have taken comfort in such a beautiful day, but his thoughts strayed back to events he had no control over, yet fell into his lap one way or another.

When had everything become so… _democratic_? Some days he didn't know who was calling the tune.

Scott wanted to start irrigating the eastern pasture and like a sly fox waited until dinner to wedge the topic in between the weather and the seed bull for sale in Modesto. He could see his son strategizing over the buttered carrots even now. While Johnny, no less of a strategist just more blunt around the edges, had already gone out and done his deed. As if Murdoch wouldn't find the two new horses in the corral.

The new hand-Billy? Bob? Bud?—had come recommended, but possibly not for ranch work. The first day on the job, his mare reared up and BillyBobBud came down in a rush of limbs, only to break one of them. He and his nurse, a comely young lady fresh from the saloon, had decided to beat the naysayers and try on a few marriage vows. Out of respect, and some would saw awe, for the newly married couple, The Gem magnanimously give the first round of drinks on the house. Fervent betting if matrimonial bliss would outlast the bandages and splint commenced with the first pour.

He had a ten spot on the bandages and splint, the odds were too good to pass up.

Then Jelly sliced his arm on baling wire. His moustache drooped so low it made him look sorrier than the ranch hound. When Teresa inferred that a bath wouldn't do any further damage, and offered to fill up the tub, it drooped even further. While fully accepting of an onion poultice for his arm, Jelly wasn't sure about the bath, noting that Ben Wilkins from the Smith ranch didn't live a day after they gave him one at the Doc's. The fact Ben had been trampled by a cow didn't seem to figure into the mix.

Del finished wiping down a few tables and swung into the chair across from Murdoch. "Say, have you seen the doings at the old Spider yet? It's been rented out. The sister who took the place is, well, she's kind of elegant." Del blushed to the roots of his curly black hair. "Haverty took a shine to her, gave her a low bid."

"I didn't know Haverty was looking to lease the old place. What kind of a woman would rent a saloon?"

"Well, I don't think she's going to lift her skirts and join the girlie review at The Gem." Del looked to the ceiling as if searching for something then shrugged. "She's one of those artistic types. Gonna put on a big show when the rehearsals are done. Mayor Higgs is talking about a Green River Repertoire Company and Tolliver from the livery and Jonesy have already signed up for parts. Kind of cultures up the place, don't you think?"

"Where did she come from?"

"Rumor has it from San Francisco. Pulled into town a couple of weeks ago, her and her assistant."

"Have you talked to her?"

"God, no. Too fancy for me."

Murdoch took another sip and grimaced, hiding it behind his cup. Something was decidedly wrong with Del's coffee.

~o~o~o~

Bird Haverty was aware of the hostile stares directed his way by the ladies of the manor when he walked into the parlor. A veritable Cerberus, each head adorned with a different color: blonde, brunette and sunset red. Christ, Nancy had put them up to this he'd bet his last silver eagle. But they were on his time now, not hers, and The Gem's revue would go on as scheduled.

Used to the upswing and downswing of Green River's economy, he knew Douglas Laverty's Bar L crew had finished their drive and were right now hunkering down in their saloon chairs expecting smiles, drinks and a soft hand to take them upstairs, not necessarily in that order. He turned to the brittle blonde with the ringlets dripping into her eyes, flicked a speck of nonexistent lint from his black felt lapel and took a politician's approach.

"What a night! The Bar L seems fit to busting up the place."

Leticia pulled her thin wrapper about her shoulders and settled back on the chaise lounge. "They'll be fine, so long as the whiskey keeps flowin' and the dice are hot."

"Uh-huh. I bet they'd like it better if they had something snappy to watch. On stage."

The ringlets shifted and she looked at him under her eyelashes. "The Bar L's full of randy goats, what they want ain't waltzin' the do-si-do on stage, more like the horizontal polka behind closed doors."

There was tittering from the other colors in the room.

Cathy twisted a piece of red and flipped it over her shoulder in study of nonchalance. "We're takin' the night off."

"Who said?"

He had his answer all along, but knew for certain when he heard the wide oak office door swing open behind him and the sultry tones.

"That would be me."

His heart skipped a beat. She held the door open for him with all the regality of Cleopatra floating down the Nile. As he passed through, he tipped his head to her, hoping he didn't look like a love-struck Marc Antony.

He went to the window and looked out at the sun-filled afternoon. A flash of blue caught his eye and he saw a man drop to street level from the second story. "Why is Jonsey leaving by way of Leticia's balcony?"

"Force of habit, I guess."

He made it back to the desk before rounding on her. "What's this all about? We've got a full house downstairs and odds are better than even they're actually paying customers. Why the hold-up for the dance review?"

"You should know, Jerome."

The use of his given name was a direct hit, lobbed with expert guidance. He desperately thought back to the last few days, wondering what happened that got stuck in her, albeit beautiful, craw. And finally came up with an answer.

"Listen Nancy, that French woman means nothing to me."

"You were certainly paying her a lot of attention."

"It's just business, honey."

"And what about twenty-five dollars off the rent price for the Spider is good for business?"

"Why don't we get down to brass tacks? This is more than just about the rent price. You've been giving me the cold shoulder all week."

"You want brass tacks, Jerome? Fine, here they are: you can go, have your fun with the pretty French lady. I don't care."

"What?" It came out too hard, too quick.

"You heard me. I've made up my mind not to care anymore." One hand hovered, then she yanked the door open. "That being said I have a revue to put on, so if you'll excuse me I'll see to it."

He watched her leave, gathering up the troops along the way, and felt a funny feeling in the pit of his stomach that had nothing to do with hunger.

~o~o~o~

A light tapping on the table brought Murdoch out of his thoughts.

"Coffee all right?"

"Hm? Oh yes, it's fine." He took a gulp as Del waited expectantly, and schooled his face into a smile.

"I sure hope so." Del beamed. "I added cinnamon to it, right after the perk, just like the Three Fountains in St. Louis. Kind of cuts the chicory taste right in half. Makes for a good change, doesn't it?"

Murdoch looked into his cup. Hands with half-moons of dirt under the nails caught his attention. Maybe he needed a change, too.

"Change of what?" asked Del.

Had he really said that out loud?

The door opened and in swept Bird Haverty saving him the problem of trying to come up an answer.

"What's going on, gents?" He stood in the middle of the café and peered around. "Del, I can see your business is booming like usual. Just as well, I need a quiet place to think and the library is closed."

"I didn't know they take your kind in the library."

"I pay my city taxes, the same as everyone. They have to let me in." He grinned. "It's the law."

Del kicked out a chair. "Then what drags you out of the saloon at this hour, Bird? Nancy finally tell you to take a walk?"

It was obvious that something had happened when Haverty's mouth tightened. He sat and played with the coffee in front of him, he took a sudden sniff. "Is this that cinnamon-flavored horse piss you're trying to pass off as coffee?"

Del frowned and started to get up.

"Just wait a minute, no need to get all flustered." Haverty brought out silver flask and proceeded to pour out a measure into each cup. "Here's something that'll make it taste better."

Murdoch's taste buds were jangled by the whiskey, but in a good way. The Gem's private stuff always went down smooth.

"So what's new? Murdoch you look like you need to spend a night or two at my place."

"That's what's wrong," Dell said. "You need to go kick up your heels once in a while. When was the last time you left the ranch? Two months? Three?"

Four, but who was counting? Besides he liked his ranch. Usually. Murdoch turned to Haverty. "How's my hand doing?"

"Which one? I don't know what you're doing out at Lancer, but keep it up, it's good for business."

"Billy…Bob…Budd…."

"You mean Robert?" So Bob it was.

"The good news is his bandages came off Tuesday."

"And the bad news?"

"You've lost a hand. I've hired him as The Gem's accountant. What that boy lacks in cowboy finesse he more than makes up for in the credit and debit lines."

Murdoch ran his finger along the rim of his cup. "So….still married?"

Haverty smiled like the Cheshire cat. "He and Selina are going like gangbusters."

Murdoch sighed as his ten dollars flew out the window.

The smile wobbled. "But I'll tell you who's not going like gangbusters and that'd be me and Nancy. She's on the warpath. Practically accused me of bedding Miss Leclerc."

"Is that her name?" Del asked. "We were just talking about her."

"Woman can't see what's right in front of her."

"Miss Leclerc?"

"What? No, Nancy."

"I've seen the way you go all moony over her. Why don't you make a…um, an honest woman out of her?"

"I'm working my way up to it, Del."

"You've been working on it as long as I've known you—what'll it be, a year in June? Any woman in their right mind would have kicked you out the door and don't let it slam on the way out, you fool."

"And how do you know so much? You haven't been out with a woman since you got here."

"Who's keeping score? Not me."

"You don't have to when it's zero."

Murdoch let his cup drop to its saucer a little too hard. "Gentlemen, I think we need a new topic of conversation."

"I'll tell you what I need and that's a way to get Nancy back…er, off my back about that French woman.

Murdoch's hand jerked away from his cup. "French? Does she have a fancy…?" He made a gesture to the top of his head.

Haverty's eyes widened. "You've met her?"

"Stumbled into her walking over from the bank. Nice woman."

He didn't like the look on Haverty's face.

"Say, I've got an idea and it'll help both of us."

"If you're thinking what I think you're thinking, the answer is no."

"What's the matter, Murdoch? Forget how it's done?"

"We haven't even been formerly introduced."

"Since when did that ever hold you back? Besides, you're one of Green River's most eligible bachelors in your category."

He was horrified. "Says who?"

"Nancy. She made a list, according to ages. Strictly for business, you see? Del, I hate to say it but you made the cut, too."

Murdoch grimaced and held up his hands to fend him off.

"Come on. Think of it as helping out a friend. I'd ask Del, but this little lady is out of his league."

Del was pretending like he hadn't heard, but his mouth opened as if to say something. He clamped it shut and nodded instead. "You wanted a change, Murdoch, this'll do it."

Haverty's eyebrows quirked. "It's just one date, you don't have to marry her."

Murdoch looked at the expectant faces before him. There were times when a man had no other choice than to cozy up to defeat. He cozied up for the entire ride back to Lancer.

~o~o~o~

"And Polonius says to his son—that's you Tolliver—'to thine own self be true'. And then you both walk off, stage right."

Adrienne half listened to her sister give instructions to the errant Polonius and Laertes out front and noted that Corrine's accent grew less French and more Brooklyn the longer the explanation. She took a cotton pad and wiped the white pancake make-up off her face and neck. The black lines around her eyes and mouth were a bit more difficult and she rubbed them harder, finally taking off the wig. It was always a struggle getting into character for the role of Hamlet, he always faced such dreadful quandaries. She groaned and gave her head a healthy scratch as she undid the pins.

Corrine came into the small dressing room. Her Ophelia headdress made her look older, more world-weary. Adrienne didn't think it was all the fault of the headdress.

"I can't do it anymore, Ree."

"I thought you liked Shakespeare, Corrie."

"Shakespeare is not what I'm talking about. Take a look around, we're in an old saloon for heaven's sake. The floorboards smell like tequila and moldy wood."

Adrienne sat back, hairbrush stilled. She thought it just smelled like theater. "We had some very nice stages in San Francisco, appreciative crowds and reviews, too."

"I suppose. But the novelty of two women playing Shakespeare was wearing off. It was time to leave. And you could only hold up the stage for so long."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning you were always more accomplished at this than me."

"Your Ophelia is getting better with every performance, Corrie." Adrienne rose and struck a pose in front of the mirror. "Think about it, we could return to New York as conquering heroes, a model of modern womanhood for all our hen-pecked and over-worked sisters everywhere."

Corrine clapped. "Brava! Brava! Are you sure the only tequila is that on the floorboards?" She took off the headdress, giving her head a shake to loosen her long auburn hair. "Your modern womanhood reminds me of the button factory. Remember?"

"How could I forget? God, those hellishly long days of stamping and sorting. Mind-numbing." She shot Corrine a look. "And weren't you oh so happy sewing dresses and hats for the hoity-toity in Flatbush."

Her sister pulled up one shoulder and shrugged.

Adrienne unbuttoned her striped Hamlet tunic. "Being older you were supposed to talk me out of this, you know."

Corrine rolled her eyes in mock disgust and gave a dramatic sweep of her hand. "I believe I tried, dear sister. But family, you know."

And there was where the truth lay. Corrine had tried several times to invoke common sense but despite the current sarcasm, her sister's sense of family never wavered. It was almost off-putting that single focus.

With Mama's inheritance in hand their lives seemed so ordinary merely sewing and clerking. Why anyone could do those jobs. Armed with a boxed set of Shakespeare's plays, and a rather unusual upbringing, they gave themselves a six month trial and fairly leapt into acting. If it was good enough for the gander it was good enough for them, too.

The why-nots became all too apparent when two sisters from Brooklyn tried to wrangle their way onto the stage. Apparently acting had not flowed down the maternal line for Corrine. Becoming French had been a turning point, something to hide behind.

"What are you thinking, Corrie?"

"That Polonius was right about a few things. And about Mama as well, if you must know."

In a way they had honored their mother, and not only by acting. Mama's fascination for the French culture had come full circle. "I think she would have been proud of us carrying on the tradition, even though she coached against it. Are you sorry?"

"No, I'm not sorry to have traveled coast to coast, seeing all there is to see, Mouse. And I've learned to hide my trembles very well on the stage."

Adrienne started braiding her hair into a knot at the base of her neck. "You haven't called me that since I started wearing long dresses. Mama used to do that, too. Exactly what bad news are you edging into?"

"Our six months is coming to an end."

"Does it have to end, though? Is Flatbush sending out a siren call to you?"

Corrine visibly shuddered. "Well, no. But…"

A loud knock on the stage door interrupted her. Mr. Haverty stood there, hat in hand, with a look on his hawkish face that said he wanted something.

~o~o~o~

It was remarkable how his mood had lifted since his coffee in town.

"Murdoch? What do you think?"

He looked over the two new cow ponies and they were prime, just as he knew they would be—his son was a good judge of horseflesh. "I think they'll do just fine, Johnny. You made a good buy." He was granted a flashing white smile.

Scott was smiling, too, but for a different reason. "We'll talk more about the irrigation tonight then?"

"Not tonight, son, I have a prior engagement. We'll talk tomorrow morning, and bring the plans you have for the site."

He turned to leave and Scott's amused question caught him halfway to the portico. "What engagement is that, Murdoch?"

"A prior one. In town," he said without looking back.

By the time he dodged Teresa and reached his bedroom, he was sweating. Even more so when he looked into his wardrobe. Huh, eligible bachelor, indeed. He started pulling out clothes.

By the time he'd discarded a second white shirt with a hole in the underarm, he heard boot steps outside his open door.

"See? I told you, Scott. There's a lady involved."

"You're right, Johnny. I wouldn't have taken our father for the tricky kind, but the scales have fallen my eyes. The question remains, who is the lucky woman?"

Johnny shrugged. "Well, there's Mabel Davis. Of course, she only has one eye, but I guess that don't matter any." He snapped his fingers. "What about the Widow Morris?"

"She is rather comely, brother, but I heard she married again, for the fourth time."

"You gotta wonder about that."

"Yep. There's Annabelle…"

"Would you two idiots care to help, or are you going to talk my ear off?"

Johnny nudged Scott's elbow. "Just waitin' for an invitation, Murdoch. We'll pretty you right up."

Scott held up a silver-toned vest from the meager pile on the bed. "What about this?"

That vest hadn't seen the light of day for twenty-two years. He last wore it to his wedding with Maria under oaken bowers at Lancer. Before that, at the church wedding with Catherine in Boston. He could still see the minister glowering down from his pulpit. It was a funny thing to assign so much weight to an article of clothing.

"No, that's off the table. I doubt it'll fit any way."

"Have you got a handkerchief?" Scott asked.

"No."

"I'll give you one of mine. Now what sort of trousers are you looking at?"

"Hey, here's a pair without any stains on' em." Johnny held them up high.

He was into the pants and his last white shirt that passed brotherly inspection, within minutes. A striped vest was added for 'fancy'. His good Sunday boots, a last minute suggestion, completed his attire.

The only thing left was his hair.

Scott looked at him critically. "Did you know you have a scar on the top of your left ear?" Murdoch reached up and felt the old result of a too-low kitchen cabinet door and a too-tall man. He'd bled all over the clean floor. No wonder Maria kept him out of the kitchen as much as possible.

Johnny gestured with a comb. "Maybe he can put his hair over his ears a little, kind of hide it a little."

He did as he was instructed and there were nods all around.

Johnny whistled the final go-ahead at five o'clock, adding high praise, "You look real good when you clean up some."

He took a last look in the mirror and generally liked what he saw. Until panic set in. He frowned.

"What's wrong?" asked Scott.

"What am I supposed to talk about?"

"Maybe listening would be the thing. Get her to start the conversation, right Johnny?"

"Sure females like to talk, or most of' em anyway."

Murdoch pulled on his string tie, it was too tight. "It's been a long time."

"Just remember to be yourself, you'll be fine, Sir."

"Now look, I've creased this tie."

"It's fine that way," said Johnny.

He was herded from the bedroom, his two sons trading glances all the way to the stairwell.

~o~o~o~

"Bonjour, Monsieur Lancer, bienvenu!"

Murdoch was greeted at the café doors by Del dressed in a white linen coat and red neckerchief. Caught by surprise, he found himself led into the tiny dining area.

There were candles scattered around and a few chairs had been shoved against the far wall to make more room. Murdoch looked askance at the puddle of bright blue flowers on the table, right next to the salt and pepper shakers and linen napkins. They hadn't been there earlier. "Very funny."

"Just getting you ready for l'amour."

"When did you become French all of a sudden, aside from the café's name?"

"Eh, not French so much, more Italian. Pops is from the old country, so all us kids grew up speaking _Italiano._ But he runs the restaurant menu in French, and that's where I picked it up." He waggled his eyebrows. "There's just something about being French. It's amazing what people will pay for beefsteak, when it's called Filet de Bouef."

They heard footsteps on the boardwalk outside the café and Del bowed the woman through the doorway.

Murdoch was a little shocked but remained silent. She waited until he held out her chair and she seated herself then looked up at him, smiling. The green eyes were startling, especially when he expected grey. And older.

Del had brought them coffee and poured out the cups, then waited until Miss Leclerc took a sip. She smiled, dimples and all. "C'est bien!"

Del did a little hitch of his right shoulder and grinned like a mad man. "Cinnamon, right after the perk."

She looked puzzled, tapping her lips a few times. "Mais où? Where did you find this?"

"The Three Fountains in…"

"St. Louis, non?"

"Oui. I mean yes. Have you been there?"

"Oui! Twice."

Murdoch cleared his throat. "Miss Leclerc, I'd like you to meet Del…"

Del interrupted and bowed low with a painful-looking blush creeping across his neck. "Joseph, Mademoiselle Leclerc. My name is Joseph Delmonico, et ce est mon café."

It may have been the low candle light, but Murdoch swore he saw her twitch a little and pale out around the mouth.

He shook out his napkin and laid it across his lap. He was as nervous as a green boy. "A funny thing…I thought I had met you earlier today—bumped into you rather—in the street. I must have been mistaken."

"Non, that was not me. I've been in répétition all day." Her eyes widened. "But you thought it was she who was coming here to meet you?"

Murdoch nodded.

She shrugged with her fingers, her hand tip-tapping against the ceramic cup. Her jaw worked, eyes glossing with emotion. A long moment passed, Murdoch looked at her, puzzled. Neither said anything, the clip-clop of horse hooves from the street providing the only commentary.

"The woman you met on the street is my sister." Her crisp French accent drifted away, replaced by an eastern tenor.

Del edged closer, a puzzled look on his face. "Brooklyn?"

Now Miss Leclerc blushed, to the roots of her blond hair. "Guilty as charged, I'm afraid."

"Why the charade?" asked Murdoch.

"Societal customs are not made with the woman in mind, Mr. Lancer. People act differently if they think you're someone different. Mr. Haverty practically fell over himself giving us the best deal he could on the old saloon."

She straightened her back and folded her hands. "My name is Adrienne Baker, late of Brooklyn, most recently from San Francisco. My sister Corrine and I are both actresses. Well, I'm an actress and Corrine goes along with it, because that's what family does. I've never seen France, except through Mama's stereopticon, but she was a Francophile of the highest degree. You know, there's just something about being French."

Adrienne closed her eyes. She sat quietly, but thrummed with tension. "Because that's what family does," she repeated, then gave a frustrated exhalation through the nose. "Why didn't I seen it before?"

Murdoch was at a loss for words, something that never happened. He and Del looked at one another.

She tilted her head and the feather from her hat hugged her cheek tighter. "Mr. Lancer? I know this evening isn't how you envisioned it to be, but could I impose upon you for a favor?"

He left Adrienne and Del sitting at the table, huddled over the blue flowers and their coffee cups, trading news from home.

~o~o~o~

It took him fifteen minutes to go a hundred yards. Somewhere between the café and The Spider, he'd lost his tie and pushed the hair off his ears. He knocked, taking care to avoid a splintered patch of wood.

She opened the door, had her thumb stuck in the middle of a book. A flash of recognition crossed her face and his heart gave a thump. "Oh, it's you."

"Your sister is at the café, she asked me to come and tell you she would be late."

The book sagged a little in her hand. "You're the Murdoch Lancer Mr. Haverty asked us about? But you were supposed to be with her."

He didn't think Corrine realized she was speaking only English. "She found someone she had a little more in common with: Del, the café owner. Or rather Joseph Delmonico, from New York City."

She let go with a flurry of French and tried to bully her way past him.

Murdoch easily caught her arm. He offered a small smile to her, like a child would offer his mother a frog. "Your sister told us everything."

She reached up, pulled Murdoch's hand away, but held onto his wrist. "Thank, God."

The low hum in his throat burst forward at last. "I know this isn't ordinary, and you don't know me, but would you have dinner with me tonight?"

Corrine half-turned away from him, her face silhouetted in shadows. "There's a boardinghouse on Elm Street—do you know it?"

"Yes."

"Could we go there?"

"Whatever you want."

"I'd like a cup of coffee."

"Mrs. Edwards puts out an excellent cup at the boardinghouse. There's no cinnamon in it."

"That's good, I don't like cinnamon."

The End

2/2014

A/N: The first Delmonico restaurant was opened by brothers Peter and John Delmonico (from Ticino, Switzerland, near Italy) in New York in 1827, the menu was in French. Joseph Delmonico and his adventures in Green River, however, is all literary license. Hey, it could happen, LOL.


	34. Blood on the Range

Blood on the Range

Murdoch was trapped in the stuffy room, penned in by four walls. No Johnny to distract and deflect with his rage about the incident, there was only the jostle against his son's door. A hand came around, followed by a white cuff and a flash of silver, pushing it open. The droopy-jowled doctor looked like the ranch hound dog, with sadder eyes if that was possible.

Johnny had left to talk to the poachers. Interrogate was a better word for what his son would do. He felt for those men—until he saw the dried blood under his fingernails. Johnny was willing to do his father's bidding, at least for now: talk to them, assemble the hands, set the perimeter, if need be.

Murdoch had pushed him out the door, sending him on the mission. Johnny, for all his youth, was experienced enough to handle it, and he needed the diversion. Though there was a reason for it, he hated to send him. A thought niggled: he just sent the bear to the picnic.

The poachers were an easy target, squatting beside the ravaged carcasses of Lancer steers. Johnny had placed his hand on the butt of his Colt, Murdoch ordered him to stay the weapon. Usually when given a direct order, John would follow. Unless he didn't. But you always knew which way he'd go, declaring his position with bold, colorful outbursts, like a politician's speech at a whistle stop.

Not like Scott. His elder son was more refined in his resistance. A subtle rebelliousness. His _wait,_ _Johnny,_ seemed louder than simply ordering. Johnny hesitated, listening to his brother above the worried lowing of cows, the rustle of leaves, and the angry protestations.

Perhaps sending him out to talk to the poachers was a bad move, but he needed to keep Johnny busy, Murdoch thought, trying to understand what the doctor was saying. Maybe he'd taken one too many falls from horses in the years past; the words weren't coming too clearly. Not enough to process anyway.

Amazingly, Johnny was the most pragmatic of them all. Able to peel away the layers until only the black and white remained. Johnny had possessed a fierce self-confidence since he was a baby. He suspected that his son's sense of self-worth had saved him many times and it would be the one thing to help carry him through his life at Lancer. Self-confidence…and his brother.

But this outcome was undeniably tenuous. Like the Appaloosa stallion recently caught under a ridge of cinnabar near Tawny Lake. He thought the horse would prove true. Hopes pinned somewhat on experience, but faith more than anything. Faith in skill, of training and the sturdy horse itself. In his sons, when it came right down to it.

Faith was not in the doctor's vocabulary at the moment. The doctor didn't know Scott very well, outside of minor church outings and the few times when one of the hands needed his schooled medical care—Lancer took care of its own after all. He should be talking about Scott's recovery, not this litany of a bullet going deep, lost blood, being too weak.

Besides, Johnny, in his own way, had given the same news, his jaw set. _Bleedin' too much, Murdoch_. He'd stayed long enough for the surgery and the lie— _Scott's_ _color is better_ —then got sent on an errand. Not a fool's errand. A tactical measure. The only leverage Lancer had if there were more foxes in the hen house.

"Do you understand, Mr. Lancer?" The hound dog was speaking again. "Your son's injury is very severe. The bullet…"

Murdoch nodded. "You're telling me he may not survive."

The doctor sighed heavily, placed the cleaned scalpel back into his medical bag. "When Johnny came to fetch me, I was at the Simpson's."

Uneasy with Murdoch's stare, he filled the silence. "I wasn't sure if I would get here in time with the right instruments." The implication being that if Scott died, it wouldn't be the doctor's fault. This was a true statement, to a point. The two men in his guardhouse and a third—the shooter—somewhere out in the range, had a decisive part in all this.

Not paying attention earned him a scowl. The doctor thought he already knew what Scott's outcome would be. "He appears comfortable now." So much pabulum, preparing the father for the inevitable.

"That's good," Murdoch murmured, looking at the small painting above the bed. Thick whorls of paint depicted a seascape with tumbling ocean waves. A token from Boston, it always made him feel unsettled.

"No, it's not good." Giving the bag one final pat, the doctor clicked it closed and leaned against the dresser. Their eyes met. "He hasn't shown any signs of waking up and that's not good."

The doctor was a nice man. He liked a nip of Scotch in his coffee on a late night call, had a wife to go home to and a house at the end of town. Probably had marigolds in his window boxes. Murdoch sat back in his chair and looked away. It was too much to take in right now.

"Johnny will be back soon…"

"In all honesty, I'd be surprised if he makes it through to morning. You should prepare his brother and Teresa."

The doctor should have known not to interrupt. "No."

He pinned Murdoch with a look, trying to will him into agreement. Or some sort of sanity.

Murdoch knew that life in the West was difficult under the best of circumstances, he knew the decisions he'd made, the things he'd done. All his experience added up to strength in conviction when he set his mind to something, steel to his backbone when things were at their darkest. "Scott will make it through." He surprised himself with a loud timbre, reeling off the phrase like it was a sure thing.

He was godawful tired of the loss. First Catherine and Scott, then Maria and Johnny. Losing Lancer to Pardee was a close thing, leaving enough damage in men and land and beef that it still stung.

The doctor, battered by words, bowed his head and worried the bright clasp of his bag while outside the window hoof beats of a lone horse leaving the courtyard sounded hollow in the twilight.

It didn't take much to figure out who the rider was.

Appalled at himself, he hoped Johnny would find the third man. And then it wasn't anger but something hot rising at the back of his throat, behind his eyes. He blinked it away, swallowed it down. The feeling was so damn useless.

~#~#~#~

A waning moon slanted ribbons of shadows across the bureau and if he listened closely enough he could hear the tones of the grandfather clock from the hallway, chiming out the early morning hour.

Murdoch looked dispassionately at the open Bible on the table, unwilling to read any more. He always prided himself on being a God-fearing man. A regular church-goer since Teresa came of age, and when the ranch schedule permitted. Because, like God, he worked on Sundays. And like God, he was a father.

 _I love this land more than anything._ Not one of the finer endorsements of his parenting skills, yet he felt an inordinate amount of pleasure at the lawyer's office when all three signatures were dry.

Scott knew how Murdoch felt about him, didn't he? Wasn't it clear enough? Only yesterday afternoon, Murdoch would have bet money on it, but things had been turned inside out, the lines blurred.

He shoved the Bible behind the lamp. Of course Scott knew.

Murdoch wanted to be there when his son woke up. He didn't want to think about Scott waking up to an empty room. He knew what it was like, to wake up alone. Almost twenty-five years ago and it still hurt: Catherine dead, Scott taken by Harlan. And a second nightmare two years later. He pushed away his fears. Scott wouldn't be alone.

The three of them had come together at Lancer and he knew what it was like. It was better. Johnny and Scott formed a close, somewhat noisy, fidelity. Too much time had passed for his sons to really need him. But they needed each other. Where would that be if one of them died?

Scott had once said that he and Johnny were alike, all pride and not an inch of give. Murdoch could only imagine what just him and Johnny would be like. Suspicions ran high that he would be the tinder to Johnny's match. Too hot and too much, the constant that held them together—and apart sometimes—would be missing.

Scott was stubborn back then, when Johnny took off with Wes, and tempers on all sides flared. He wasn't willing to let go.

He let his shoulders slump forward and rubbed at his face with dirty hands. The frank butchery of the cows clouded his vision and he squeezed his eyes shut. If they hadn't happened across the poachers that evening. If Scott hadn't said anything, if Johnny hadn't stopped….

The sound of footsteps came from the hallway.

Johnny hadn't changed, his blue shirt was smeared with spots of dulled red. He slipped between the bed and bureau, started to press a splay of fingers on Scott's forehead then hesitated. "How bad, Murdoch? How bad?"

Murdoch licked his lips. "I don't know."

Johnny slowly lowered himself to a corner of the mattress, careful not to jiggle his brother. "You're not askin' what happened tonight?"

"The doctor left for the Simpson ranch again, does he need to come back before the morning?"

"No."

Murdoch chewed on his barely contained frustration when Johnny avoided his stare. "What happened, then?"

He blinked hard. "That third poacher? He's Tommy Harwood. Me and Scott talked to him in town a few weeks ago. Can't be more'n fifteen."

His eyes lifted and found Murdoch's. "But there wasn't any killin' tonight."

Unexpected relief made him sag in his chair. Curious now, not angry, he'd seen Johnny's face when Scott took the bullet. "What stopped you?"

Shadowed, John's eyes were dark. Pitiless. But he nodded to the head of the bed. "You heard what he said."

For one moment Murdoch sat very still, the lantern's flame dancing within its glass. Johnny held his right hand across his lap, palm up, almost an invitation. Then, other memories: the yelling, the boom of guns anyway, Scott's words choked out in the dust.

Johnny shifted, canted his foot sideways so Murdoch could see the worn sole, pocked with scuffs. "Woulda been easy to pick him off in that culvert." He scratched at his eyebrow, half-hiding behind his hand. "Nearly rode right on top of him and I had my gun ready."

"Scott's going to be…"

"Fine?" Johnny snapped his fingers. "Just like that? It's that easy?"

"Of course it's not that easy."

"That thievin' boy's life for Scott's? It's not a fair trade. Not when I could've done something about it."

"Like what Johnny, shoot that youngster?"

"I don't know, but something."

Scott's _wait, Johnny_ , louder than shouting, louder than everything. Murdoch shied away from the thought of that plea, what Scott had been trying to prevent. What he had prevented and what had come of it.

Like being in the depths of a cavern, hearing the voices of his sons over the crumble of rocks and stones, feeling their hurt, but not being able to do a damn thing about it.

A series of tentative breaths, one after the other, signified life. His son, reduced to a few recent memories and one long-ago birthday party in Boston. A ragged hole in the body that Catherine had worked so hard on for the last nine months of her life.

Murdoch looked at Scott and wondered if his elder son was letting go now.

He shook his head. Stubborn then, and now. Not dying. Murdoch knew this. Scott had made it this far, didn't he?

The End

9/2013


	35. Timestamp for Blood on the Range

A/N: This scene follows the events described in _Blood on the Range_. If you haven't read that first, this might seem a bit strange.

Timestamp: Blood on the Range

Melville's _Moby Dick_ was sprawled across Scott's lap, opened to an as yet unread page, one corner turned back and crumpled under itself. Concrete evidence his son was still recovering.

"You can leave, you know."

Scott's words were swathed in a fog of lethargy. A plea or a demand, Murdoch didn't know which. The only thing Scott conceded was that he was too stiff to go downstairs. Which hadn't stopped him earlier in the week when he'd dragged himself up and out of bed to open the window, but the days that came between then and now had been different. Scott wasn't about to say, 'I'm sore because I was shot by a boy who I befriended,' but that's exactly what Murdoch understood and he tried very hard to walk on eggshells around his son.

With mixed success, of course.

The weather had cooled, thank God, and come Sunday, the sun was clear and high, breeze-buffeted. Although Johnny had stated, repeatedly and with true feeling, that he'd rather clean out the privy than escort the prisoners into town with Val, Murdoch had insisted. If any residual trouble was going to surface, better to know sooner than later.

The soup and bread weren't anything fancy, but the smell had been magic and Scott collapsed back against the headboard after finishing, shoving a hand through his hair, not wanting to show how tired he got by just sitting up and eating.

Murdoch used another expression when he sat down across from him, and it was one that historically—and it was an entirely too short a history—put Scott's dander up. It was his honed _tellmesomething_ expression.

"Son—" he started, and Scott stonewalled him. He did it badly though, scratching his left elbow intently, as if discovering a new wrinkle in the bed sheet. Not fully expressing how badly he wanted Murdoch to leave it alone, but effective nonetheless. Murdoch gathered up the bowl and spoon, the plate with its bits of leftover brown crust, and stood.

A horse neighed from the corral and as Murdoch stretched to look out the window, he saw Frank hitching the wagon, no doubt going to the eastern pasture for there was hay in the fields, unseen to since the incident. Cipriano caught up to him at the post and they both laughed at some unknown joke. All around, signs of life proceeding obliviously. If it wasn't so wonderful, it would be depressing.

It was familiar, the understanding that death existed in the midst of life. Here, though, in his son's bedroom, memories haunted.

Scott squirmed, trying to find a comfortable position without bending at the hips. He leaned plank-like against his pillows and Murdoch bit back a smile.

After a minute, Scott shrugged, shifted himself onto his side to accommodate his discomfort. "Is a few head of cattle worth almost dying?"

Murdoch's brows crooked together. "Not in my estimation."

The quiet stretched a little and Scott's hand crept across his chest, across the white bandages. "But then you're the owner of said cattle. I wonder if the risk was worth it to Tommy Harwood?"

"I can imagine—." He might have continued, but both were distracted by a squeak of wooden flooring in the hallway.

Murdoch took a deep breath as though that might help, and moved to the bureau with dishes in hand when Johnny came into the room.

Johnny took his concentration from the bed for a minute, ignored Murdoch, and hooked the chair rung with one leg, swinging into it with more gusto than was strictly necessary. Masking. Murdoch knew he'd just come from town.

"The trial is set for next week and Val said the circuit judge reads the Old Testament every night." At Scott's look he continued, "An eye for an eye."

"Bet they weren't counting on that," Scott concluded.

"Still holding out, brother? You can forgive an awful lot."

"I'm in favor of jail over execution."

"You're something." Johnny said it seriously, meant for it to be taken seriously. Murdoch glanced over, watched as Scott kept very still.

"I didn't do a damn thing except get your attention." Scott gestured with one hand and Johnny looked away.

"I figured that out, thanks." Johnny said it too fast, perhaps thinking of that night.

Scott shook his head, but Johnny stepped into the breach with both feet.

"You get to do that once," he warned, and held up a finger.

Scott's lips pressed together, a deep mark between his eyebrows. "I'd do it again, given the same circumstances." He retreated, fingering the worn edge of the blue-checked blanket. Then snuck a glance at Johnny, but wasn't quick enough. Johnny was staring.

And now Scott stared back.

There was silence, anger maybe. They were too full. It was still too much, for the both of them. Then Scott looked down at his hands, as he often did, with a dangerous half-smile that said he was thinking far too much. He tried to ease himself off the bed, frowned when Johnny caught the book in one hand before it tumbled to the floor.

Murdoch stepped out of the shadows from the bureau, cleared his throat.

Hackles lowered, Scott pressed back into his pillow while Johnny settled into his chair. A détente of sorts.

"I wonder what it was like, planning it," Scott mused. "Why Lancer? Did we say something to Tommy that made him think it was a good idea?"

Johnny made a noise, not quite a question. But interested.

Scott continued, sufficiently encouraged. "Did they think about the consequences?"

The downstairs clock groaned out seven bells while Scott waited, but Johnny was thinking about it.

Finally, he said, "Maybe they did, most likely not. In too much of a hurry to get the job done. Shit like that – you can figure on what might happen, and do it anyway. Probably thought they were safe. Maybe they even had fun, taking a few cattle for fresh meat, and then all back to normal. Home again."

Home. Murdoch considered the ranch, because it was easy: you stayed and you worked the land, the animals, the men and got someplace. That ceased to exist when Scott was wounded. Had set brother against brother, in a way.

"You know," and Murdoch heard the weary in Scott's voice again, almost leaden this time, sleep perhaps not far away. "I'd be happy not to find any more trouble for a long while."

And although Johnny seconded the feeling, those words struck Murdoch as odd, because all they seemed to do was find trouble: Pardee, the Strykers, Foley. One day, it would come again. He'd always kept his eye on the future before and now the future worried him. He wondered if it worried his sons, if they even planned beyond their next day, and Murdoch thought maybe after what they'd all been through he'd earned the right to ask.

But Scott's head was tipped to the side in sleep, so he gathered up the dishes, tapped Johnny on the shoulder and slipped out the door.

The End

10/2013


	36. Lineage

Warnings: A response to the October Halloween Challenge 2012 given at Lancer Writers. This is an odd one.

Lineage

Murdoch, born and bred a realist, was quite aware the impact Pardee had on Lancer. After all, it was part of the reason he sent for Scott and Johnny in the first place. The second part, however, was more compelling: they shared blood, Lancer was their birthright.

Wind and form combined, shifted. A gray shape moved against the outline of a tree. _Pardee_. Murdoch put one hand on his chest, felt his heart hammering away. It took a long time for it to slow, but he waited, ignoring the grunts and growls around him.

A little surreal, Murdoch thought. Mostly because the humming along his veins wasn't allayed in the least by the little jolt of tonic taken beforehand, and he recognized what was coming. Behind it was worry for his sons, but he couldn't—wouldn't—give in, because Murdoch knew worry like that turned into terror, would take over everything.

The grey solidified and Pardee parted his lips to show his teeth, growing longer and sharper, starburst-white in the moonlight. But Scott and John were waiting.

Clutching the stake's hilt with both hands, Scott brought it down tip-first, shoving the silver with force right into the soft spot between Pardee's ribs. Pardee gasped, his arms and legs suddenly in spasm.

A terrible howl started but died into a feeble groan as Johnny sunk his own stake, the second—and final—cut into the wolf's heart.

Murdoch watched with satisfaction as Pardee shifted out of animal form and his compañeros fled. Other distant howls ripped the night: their leader was dead.

Scott was pale and ghost-like in the starlight; Johnny's face a bloodless white. Their line of hunters stretched and twisted back to the time when the first Picti drove the Roman hordes back to Hadrian's Wall. Murdoch was more than pleased: his sons would do.

He faced the bloodied pair, expanding his lungs to take in the heavy scent of copper. Smelling the wild and the old, he closed his eyes for a moment, flicking his tongue around a needlelike incisor.

Johnny's fangs snicked back into his gums under a thin smile. "He was a fool for tryin' to take on the nest."

And Murdoch already knew that.

The End

10/12


	37. Crow

Warnings: Fairly sad, this is sort of a pre-Lancer tale, pre-Scott and Johnny anyway.

Crow

He didn't like birds, never had. But there was Cal's crow, tapping on the window. The boy opened it and the bird dropped right onto his shoulder, as if it weighed nothing. It gripped Cal's checked shirt, a quick skritch of contentment clicking from its black beak. The boy answered back, murmuring low in his throat.

Joseph swallowed and looked away because it wouldn't do to have Cal know. The scent of crow pulsed in waves: cannon fire, blood, carrion. Death. The last smell landed like a punch, caused him to grab the side of the workbench.

He tapped his chisel against its pock-marked top. "Calvin, get that thing out of here. It'll make a mess and dirty up the shop."

Cal's mouth twitched, but he went to the window and shoo'ed the thing outside. It squawked once, then flapped away, and Joseph could breathe again.

It was bad enough having the bird in the shop, but Cal had made the mortise too small on the dish keeper, it would have to be drilled out again. He sighed and swept his eyes to the Gilbert regulator. Nine-thirty already. She was late.

"I'm going out back to see what's keeping her." Dipping his hand into the deep lunch pail, he felt around until he came up with his noon sandwich and tore it in half.

"She probably found somebody better, Uncle." Cal waggled his eyebrows like it was funny. Maybe he was mad about having to send the crow outside.

He let the door slam behind him. It was a childish thing for a grown man to do, but it made him feel better just the same.

There she was, trotting with a big dog-grin, already halfway down the alley. He let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding. "Where have you been? See here? I've brought you breakfast." Her tail thumped twice and she sat, expectant but not demanding. Never that. He couldn't help a quick grin.

By the time he got back, Murdoch Lancer had joined Calvin at their work table, dirt-seamed hat tossed carelessly on plans for new cabinets, his shoulders hunched over a cup of coffee. Big, hard hands split with dirty cuts. There was something about hands, maybe it was the carpenter coming out in him, but he always remembered what they looked like even if he couldn't pull the name. He'd know Murdoch's from a mile away.

Cal's gentle Midwestern twang lulled with its crow-talk, at odds with Murdoch's rough burr. Joseph's gaze darted outside, and tracked a cloud moving through the sky. Maybe he'd put two sandwiches in his pail, starting tomorrow. She'd be tickled to get a whole one.

"I need another one made. How much will it cost?" It took him a good few seconds to tear his eyes away from the blue and focus on the rancher beside the work table. Murdoch was trying to get his attention. "How much?" he repeated and Joseph stepped closer, smiling in that bland way he'd perfected over the last seven years since Culp's Hill, and the way that Calvin always said made him look like a Methodist preacher about to render sermon.

He was already shaking his head before Murdoch's words were fully out. "I can't do it."

Lancer had the reputation of being an emotionless man, which had kept him in good stead as a rancher. But he hadn't shaved in a while, and looked like he'd been drinking too much coffee over too many sleepless nights.

"Can't or won't?"

Murdoch scoured him with a hot stare, and he dropped his eyes. Feeling color spike to his cheeks, he crooked his head to the door. "Cal, give us some time."

Calvin crooked his eyebrows together, though the hair in his eyes disguised most of his puzzlement.

He waited until the door closed behind his nephew. "Lots of places around here could build you one," he said, not committing himself to anything, definitely not Lancer. "Try Ed Walker, or Manny Tate at the stables."

"Did Pardee put you up to this?"

"One of his boys paid a visit. Warned me they'd lean hard, if I was to help you."

"I'll pay."

"I know you will."

"You're the best. And I want the best." Joseph turned and stuffed his hammer and chisel into a leather bag, trying to avoid the meaningful glances Murdoch was sending his way.

Not that there was an obligation, but Joseph Pittman had a hard time refusing a man in need, even if it was Lancer and his temper. But Murdoch should just find another carpenter. Because if he didn't stop making coffins, Joseph was going to go crazy, was going to lose more than he already had.

So he let it lie, tried another tact. "What happened?"

Staring at his coffee like he'd just realized it was there, Murdoch pushed it away. "Raul Valdez was shot."

He started. "That was Valdez who got shot?" The gossip about a killing had spread across town. Valdez was one of a handful who had stayed with Lancer. Stuck hard and close. Loyalty didn't pay much these days.

Lancer stared, looked lost for a second. Joseph motioned with his hand, wanting to know the story more than he wanted to see that look. It was out of place on the man.

"Pardee was there, in the tree line. Waited until I was riding the other way. Then he broke out of the green, firing. I yelled for Raul to follow, when ..." and he stopped, snagged on disbelief and horror. "They shot him in the back right in front of me. Like it was a damn lesson. As if Paul wasn't enough." He looked up, caught Joseph's eyes. "He's dying."

He was tired all of a sudden. "I'm in the middle of…" he was going to use the word "something", but that wouldn't be good enough. "I'm working, Murdoch. Got the dish keeper for the Andersons and three other orders I'm already behind on."

"Don't want to put you out any." From the tone, Lancer didn't give a good damn whether he put Joseph out or not. He stopped thinking right then.

Was halfway to the big bellied stove and coffee, when Murdoch asked, "What's the real reason, Joe?" It was point blank, and he didn't know if Lancer was trying to hurt him. Shrugging, he kept his eyes on the pot. Three more steps. Then picked the reason Murdoch would understand best. "Promised my brother I'd look after Calvin, keep him safe."

His nephew was just five when Joseph and Evan left for the cause. Near six, by the time they were heartsick from battle and eight when Evan died in a Rebel fusillade in Pennsylvania. Only one state away from home, they may as well been across the ocean. Evan had lingered on the battlefield, no coffin, no ceremony to mark his passing, just crows pecking at the dead. It made his stomach hurt.

"But he's almost a man, helps you make caskets in the back room. He has to know why he's making them." Murdoch had his own weapons, not all of them steel and bullets.

"He's still young, doesn't need to know everything. Evil will find him soon enough, I don't need to give it to him."

But Murdoch was a million miles away, and Joseph had no idea what he was thinking. Given a bullet in the back, Paul's death and now Raul, town gossip about fires and a resident gunfighter in the saloon, he could guess.

Wrong as it turned out, because Murdoch's hand drifted over the onion skin of the cabinet plans, picked at a torn edge. He wasn't looking at Joseph, but concentrating on him all the same. "Your son Michael. He's dead, isn't he?"

Not a question, not really. He'd taken his time asking about it. Joseph nodded and only then did Murdoch look up, sensing the movement maybe.

"An accident. Back in Clarksville, with his mother."

Murdoch licked his lips, swallowed. "I'm sorry." Two sons of his own, experienced enough to know what sorry really meant. Maybe he and Murdoch weren't so far apart after all.

Joseph smiled, though it hurt in a peculiar, unfamiliar way. "He was a good boy. On his way to becoming a fine man. Like Calvin."

Foregoing the stove, he picked up his sash planer, felt along the edge of the piney dish keeper, sent a few curls of shaved wood to the table. Murdoch's sons were both living. It was none of his business, and Lancer would not thank him for wading in. That's what Joseph told himself. But he spoke anyway, "Why not those boys of yours?"

And Murdoch knew right away, what he was talking about.

"Because," and his voice drifted, drawing Joseph's attention. Murdoch's bruised hand was across his mouth, and he rubbed the stubble there. "Because."

Reason enough, always had been before now, but Joseph plowed on. "I know it's hard to track down south, but the one east is easy enough." It was a lot of land, he always assumed it was important to Lancer from the way he talked. But it was puzzling why he never sent for the boy in the first place. And then the second one was taken away. Rumors ran rampant in the mercantile and granary.

Murdoch flinched and something passed across his face. "Maybe," he said softly, but it was no agreement.

Joseph knew something about that sort of fear, a father's fear, and was getting worked up himself, a lump lodged in him somewhere, begging for release. He heard the chair scrape out and looked up from the cabinet to see Murdoch standing not five feet from him. A terrible expression on his streaked face, every painful thing written there so clearly that Joseph's breath stopped in his chest.

He lowered his planer, set it carefully on the counter. Drew his fingers through the pile of shavings, and watched them flutter to the floor.

By the time Joseph got to the table, Murdoch was ready to fight. He had a particular way about him, the lowered shoulders, open stance, almost asking to be hit. But he kept his chin down, as though he was being deferential, but that wasn't it. It was defensive, so he didn't take one on the chin. He'd pay Pardee back, in kind.

It only served to make Joseph madder. He looked at his worn, calloused hands. "Day Pardee aside, I can't make any more coffins. Don't ask."

Murdoch's mouth pressed shut like a granny's purse. Broad hands and bland stare, maybe he was scared of the future, scared enough to do something dumb.

In time, he turned and left the shop.

Caught in the breeze from the door, sawdust swirled, painting Joseph's boot tips. Just as visions of Evan and Michael swirled in his mind. It was all too much. He couldn't do it.

~o~O~o~

Calvin was sent home while he stayed behind to finish the dish keeper. He ran his hand down the full length of pine boards. They were smooth, almost satiny, to his fingertips. The dovetails he'd mitered were just right, the joints would hold for a long, long time. Tomorrow, he'd start on the hardware clasps.

Their sharp laughter was spiked with sharper yips, reaching all the way inside the shop. It pulled him away from his chisels and made him step outside.

Two revelers from the saloon burst through the doorway in that peculiar hitch-step that bespoke of too much alcohol and too little brains.

"Well, well. Look what we got," said one of the drunks, the same one who had come into the shop to deliver the warning. "Kind of a loud-mouthed little bitch ain't she? Go on Day, bet ya a five spot."

His gut tightened when he saw her across the street by the mercantile. The gunfighter's hand drifted toward the six-shooter on his hip. Joseph was running before the last echo of shot bounced off the plate glass window.

He stood in front of her for a long time, long enough for their crowing laughter to fade away. When the eastbound stage passed, heavy on the whip, he couldn't help but feel the pull of the wheels and saw himself on that same coach, making good time for the green fields of Indiana.

He crossed over the ruts to an old cottonwood. "How about over here?" he murmured to no one. It would be hard going, the ground was still a little frozen from the spring thaw, but the hole didn't have to be deep.

The first thunk of steel biting the ground made his arm shake. Clay dust mixed with moisture, winter heavy, turning quickly to something more solid. It was just a dog, Joseph told himself over and over. Not like burying a human at all.

He leaned against the spade handle. His eyes were full, he realized, brimming. He dragged his sleeve across them, never hearing the man approach.

Murdoch laid one big hand on his shoulder and eased the spade out of Joseph's grip. "Let me."

Joe smelled death and saw Calvin's crow shuffling on the roof peak of the carpentry store like an excited child waiting to pick out a candy stick from the jar. He picked up a stone and let it fly. The bird croaked in protest and flapped away.

He turned and met Murdoch's stare.

"Five dollars for the pine and I've got oak boards, already dried, for eight." He already knew which one Lancer would choose. It'd be two days of planing and sanding the oak, one day for the hardware. "I'll need three days."

Murdoch blinked, nodding a couple of times before looking down to where she lay in a crumpled heap. "Make it the oak. I'll get word if he doesn't last that long." Then grasped the spade and let it sing against the frozen earth under the cottonwood.

The End

6/10/15


	38. Which We Ascribe to Heaven

Warnings: None.

Which We Ascribe to Heaven

A flurry of horns and hooves was all it took, Johnny thought. It was raining, not soft drops that made you think of late summer corn growing in the fields, but hard spits blown side-ways from black skies that made hunkering down and cursing the clouds seem like a good idea. And still Scott stood there with head bowed, shirt ripped at the shoulder, mud sluiced up one side.

There wasn't anything his brother, or God, could do about it now.

He jammed his cold hands into coat pockets, found the rough edge of the boy's lucky gold coin. Forgotten until now, it was too late to put it in the makeshift grave because between the rain and the accident, they had to make up for lost time. He'd do it on the way home.

Frank murmured about the pissy weather, swear words wrapped around hasty prayers. Probably glad it wasn't him assigned to ride drag when hell broke loose. Erubiel wiped a palm against his stained cook's apron before making the sign: fingers brushing his forehead then down to his chest, up to the shoulder, first left then right.

Alonzo was a quiet kid, always had his head in a book of some kind, now he was dead. The parts they'd found were collected and buried together a few feet down in hard scrabble. No one was gonna change that fact, least of all Scott, no matter how hard or how long he looked at the mound of stones, wanting it to be different.

~o~o~o~

It was forty-eight hours later when the rain stopped and six miles to Conaway from where they left the herd in a grassy valley, chewing sodden grass. Scott, bit in his teeth, had pushed the crew and the cattle hard enough to make up for most of the lost time, but not near as hard as he pushed himself. Cipriano saw him veer off to circle around in front of a few tetchy cows. Like he knew where they were going to bolt before the cows did. More than four thousand pounds of steer and slippery mud against one man on a horse—the odds were stacked in the wrong direction.

Right there and then Johnny decided it didn't matter to his brother anymore.

Riding herd with Scott when he was thinking hard on something didn't usually make much difference. It had always been one of his more annoying traits: once learned, the job seemed almost second nature like he could do it in his sleep, or, in this case, wide awake and careless. Funny thing was, he'd never known his brother to be careless.

Johnny was entitled to have a say. What he wanted to do was grab the elbow of Scott's jacket and pull him up, have it out. He probably should, and not only because they were about to reach town.

Everything was raw since Alonzo had been buried. Like a few other times, mostly those early months when they'd first arrived to Lancer, he hadn't quite worked out what was going on in his brother's head. What he did know was that they were getting close to some sort of boiling point, yet Scott didn't seem inclined to jump out of the pot anytime soon.

And Johnny wasn't looking forward to the coming burn.

The cattle were checked, sold to Chick Wells, an acquaintance of Murdoch's. At the bank, Scott stood square on his feet as the money was counted, watching the coin and bank notes pass hands. All over and done, there was a smile for Wells and the teller, but back outside a thin hard line marred the crook of Scott's mouth. Johnny couldn't remember if it was new or had always been there.

 _Hell, I understand that you liked Alonzo, but I wanna know why you're set on taking all the blame. Killing yourself over it is not gonna do anybody any good 'cause it won't bring the kid back. You're chasing your tail and I don't even think you know it._

Given the choice between that conversation and entering a saloon with a man inching his way towards _something_ , Johnny knew exactly where his cowardice lay.

"This must be the place," Scott noted with his lopsided half-smile, pointing to the wooden sign suspended across the boardwalk: The Gem.

Johnny stared at the fancy scroll. Found he was biting the inside of his mouth, hard. Well, he wasn't going to watch Scott go into the there alone. Even he knew that wasn't a good idea.

The closed up room was lit like coal oil was free, and the man behind the bar gave them a thorough once-over as soon as they were through the door. Cipriano, Frank and a few other Lancer men were already there looking bored, either loitering around the bar or throwing down cards at their table. It occurred to him that no one was drinking. Frank lifted his shoulder, pulled it into a shrug and nodded towards Scott. So that's how it was going to be.

Johnny shepherded him to a side table in the shadows, where a brother could get a quiet drink—or two—under the watchful eyes of his crew.

~o~o~o~

Scott looked away, and Johnny knew he wasn't going to get any answers. Not enough liquor yet. Beer never made a dent with Scott's mouth—you had to switch to whiskey or tequila for that. It was warm in the room with the lone window shuttered so he leaned back and opened his collar. When the bartender threatened to take away the half-full bottle after pouring their drinks, Johnny stayed his hand with a few coins. It was a start, anyhow.

It seemed like hours, and he had always liked the smell of smoke, the rumble of voices, the clink of glasses. One voice was missing, Scott's, and he closed his eyes for a minute or two, trying to think up a way to start.

"Alonzo dying out there wasn't your fault."

Scott flicked the words away like a gnat buzzing his ear, cast around for his glass and emptied it in one swig. "I made the assignments. He wasn't ready." He finally looked up, blank as canvas but not nearly as pliable.

A high pitched laugh echoed from the corner while another man moaned over his losing two of a kind. Smoke hung in the rafters like wispy curtains trailing in a summer breeze. The liquor sloshed and swirled in Johnny's glass dotting the scarred top of the table as he tipped it to and fro.

"Why are we here, Scott?"

"The tally was taken, the contract settled, why not celebrate?"

Not taking the time to shave before they left camp, Scott had fine stubble on his cheeks and chin. Sketches of dirt ground in by sweat or rain spotted his shoulders and collar, fingernails blackened by dried mud. To anyone else he was a man who worked cattle, but to Johnny it seemed out of place.

"So we're gonna get drunk, is that it? In celebration?"

"It's better than the alternative." Scott tipped the bottle up and poured himself anther drink. "Do you ever wonder why things happen, Johnny?"

The talk made Johnny nervous. "Don't make it complicated. Alonzo was in the wrong place, is all."

"So, a coincidence then."

"If I had something to say, you gonna jump down my throat?"

"What is it?"

"Are you sure you're ready to hear?"

"Tell me," Scott demanded. "What do you have?"

"Alonzo was a reckless kid. He knew enough about pushing cattle, but he didn't take it serious. Not when the time came, not when he needed to."

He tossed Alonzo's coin on the table, burnished gold glinting eerily in the dim lantern light, the well-thumbed words on its face almost worn off, like a talisman.

"Cipriano found it in the dirt. After."

Looking startled, Scott picked it up, fingered its edge. "Did you know Alonzo wanted to go to school? Found these words in a book somewhere, asked me what they meant." He flashed a grin at the memory. "I had to go back to my Latin and why I brought those papers out west is anybody's guess—maybe I wanted a piece of familiarity. But he liked the meaning, said it felt right to him, had it inscribed."

"What's the saying?"

"Data fata secutus, it means following what is decreed by fate." Scott laughed, and it was a brittle sound, like scratching metal against metal.

"Maybe those words are true, maybe Alonzo was supposed to be out there in the rain."

"Scattering my guilt so as not to have too heavy a load? No thanks, I'd rather cleave to it in one tidy bundle."

"Listen to me…"

"I knew Aaron wasn't ready, yet I gave the orders anyway," Scott interrupted.

"Who was Aaron?"

Scott swung his head up. "What?"

"You said Aaron instead of Alonzo."

"Did I?" The coin was dropped on the table like it was hot.

Before the talk could stop, he asked, "What happened? Something back east?"

"You wouldn't understand," Scott started, and Johnny ended up sighing.

"No, you're the one who doesn't understand. You liked Alonzo, I know. But not even that. You wanted to save him." He paused. "You wanted to save him," he repeated, locking eyes with his brother.

So Scott told him. Three or four sentences, that was all, and Johnny heard what his brother wasn't saying about his war, knew what his brother couldn't admit: orders were given, a friend died, and there wasn't much worse than that.

"Death by fate's decree. Is that what it is? For Alonzo, for Aaron?" He played with the rim of his glass. "I have to wonder why I'm the fulcrum."

He sounded calm, but he couldn't see his brother's eyes, and so had no idea what was whirring away in there, maybe quiet musings. But Scott did look at him then, eyes hollowed out, weary. Drop a stone in them and never hear it hit bottom.

Looking away, Johnny blanched. Like stuffing seed back into a ripped bag, he gathered his anger—for Scott, for Alonzo, the soldier back east who didn't live long enough—and wasn't terribly surprised to find they were all gnarled into a hard knot.

Scott rolled the empty bottle between two hands. He didn't move for a long moment, then looked toward the closed window, something like misery flitting across his face. "It will be okay," he said, and someone near the door dropped a glass, shattering it.

Johnny had no idea who he was talking to.

So he watched Scott, saw how he jolted gracelessly from the table, heel and toeing it to the bar for another bottle.

A square block of man, loud and immovable, was there, slapping his palm down to hurry up his beer. Scott tried to give him a wide berth, but there were too many others crowded around.

Jostled, the man turned awkwardly and pushed his Montana peak hat to the back of his head, calling out with a booming voice. "You cattlemen always act like you own the town." The first time he shoved at Scott's shoulder, his brother merely raised a hand. It was a warning rattle, Johnny pushed away from the table.

"You damn drovers need to stay out of the saloon!" And he jabbed a second time.

Scott's heavy fist plowed true to the side of the man's nose.

Johnny scrambled to his feet. For the first few seconds it went well enough. He was stone cold sober, and had too much experience in this sort of thing. Enough to know that after the first round or two, he would be real glad Cipriano and the boys were in the same saloon because experience wouldn't count for a hill of beans when locals got their outrage under them.

So he enjoyed the two hits he got in: one to a drunk's jaw when he got in the way and another to the stomach of a thin, mouthy cowboy who was most likely to make trouble.

Johnny was a good ten feet away when Scott slipped on wet floorboards and, if he hadn't twisted to avoid a solid right punch, would have missed it entirely. It wasn't so much the slide or the angle, but Scott bounced his chin off the edge of the mahogany bar on the way down.

When Johnny finally got there, his brother was getting to his feet flapping around like a guinea hen walking an uneven fence line. He tapped his bloody chin with two fingers. "Damn, that hurts."

"Scott, you all right?"

Tongue ran around teeth, doing a mental count. "I think so." He stepped back, bumped into the big man with the Montana peak hat.

Montana circled around, knuckles bunched and hard. He lunged and Scott dodged, sending his fist out, skimming the man's cheek with enough force his head lobbed back. He blocked another wild swing and caught Montana by the wrist; twisted his forearm a half-turn, shoved him back the way he came

The man made a sudden grab for his coat and something glinted silver in the shadowed saloon. Johnny watched in awful slow motion as it swung down towards Scott and blood spattered the floor.

He dove, head first in a tackle, wrapping his arms around the big man. All three fell heavily to the hard wooden planks of the floor. A dull thud of body against wood as Scott was thrown against the bar.

The fall lacked Scott's usual finesse and he ended up in a heap, his boot heel clipping the spittoon, sending it spinning towards the window. It might have been funny at any other time, but seeing the blood brought Johnny a surge of blind panic before he could find his feet. A split second's throwback to hot pistols and one more grisly death he couldn't prevent.

A shotgun roared behind the bar and finally—finally!—the saloon went silent.

"Did I just get knifed?" Scott wanted to know when he came to.

"Yeah." Johnny squatted to get a look at the long bloody stripe down Scott's forearm. "There goes our plan for soft, dry beds."

"What beds?" Scott groaned.

"Those would be the beds where we get off the wet ground and sleep inside for the night." Johnny looked up at the handful of men who stood paralyzed in a semi-ring around them. He reached up and grabbed the barman's towel. Took one look at the greasy stains and threw it aside. "Take it easy, you've got a cut on your arm here."

He had to rip the sleeve wider to get his fingers in and when he did, felt a warm, slick gush at the wound's edge. Scott twitched and caught his protest between his teeth. A second later, the seep of crimson darkened and grew on the checked shirt.

Johnny clamped his palm down over the slippery gash and felt the muscle seize.

Scott's face scrunched, but he stayed quiet and still.

Cipriano left Montana under the guard of two frowning Lancer cowboys and folded a neckerchief in half.

Johnny grabbed a whiskey bottle. He could probably get it over in one quick splash. Angling his hand away, he upended the remainder of the whiskey over the wound. Scott arced noiselessly at the assault. The neckerchief went around twice and was tied off at the wrist.

"You're looking kinda grey. You all right?"

"A bit dizzy," Scott confessed. "Although the whiskey may have a hand in that." He looked down at his arm, where blood already spotted the neckerchief. "I think I may need reinforcement."

He ripped a length from the hem of Scott's shirt. "One more time, okay?"

Johnny waited while his brother got a hand curled around the iron foot rail tracking the bar, and braced. Scott closed his eyes, nodded permission. He yanked it tight around the arm while Scott bit back the sharp spike of pain.

He clapped Scott's thigh, forced a grin. "There you go. That should do."

Blinking, Scott huffed out a few hard breaths through his teeth. "What's it supposed to do, except hurt like the devil?"

He was about to answer when the sheriff entered the saloon, stopping to take note of the bleary-eyed man guarded by Frank—only not so much guarding as holding up. Tin star hanging on by a thread, he shook his head like a tired old dog. A fight at The Gem must be usual doings in Conaway.

Johnny sat back on his heels, wiped his bloodied hands on his trousers for lack of anything else. Nothing usual about it, he thought. And he understood something about his brother, something that had somehow escaped him all this time, because Scott didn't often give up anything.

~o~o~o~

Erubiel looked up at Johnny from bandaging Scott's arm. Where the knife had sliced through shirt and skin, and where a few inches higher they could have buried two men on this trip. Scott, unaware and half-tipsy on saloon and medicinal whiskey, pushed the cook's hand away. Lifting an index finger, he pointed out over the tethered remuda to the pinks and yellows of the lowering sun in the distant west.

"Beautiful. The sort of ending to a day that makes you want to see more, doesn't it? No matter how hard it may have started out." His brow furrowed. "Are we predestined in this world, Johnny?"

Cleaning up the needle and threads, the cook tapped the whiskey bottle and raised his eyebrows, an explanation for the crazy talk. But it had nothing to do with the amount of liquor gone from the bottle.

Scott whistled low, shook his head. "I might have to argue that point. Data fata secutus, indeed."

Johnny winced, sucked in a breath. His fingers found the coin in his coat and flipped it over and over. They'd make the grave by tomorrow if the weather held. Was it lucky? Hell no, at least not for Alonzo. Blinking, he gave his rigid shoulders a rolling shrug.

He took it out and dropped it into Scott's breast pocket. Johnny watched him while holding his breath the same way he did when fingering a trigger.

Scott teased the coin through the fabric of his shirt for a few long moments, then dipped his head. Emotions flared—hurt, anger, pain—and through it all just the beginning of acceptance.

The End

04/13

A/N: The title of this story comes from _All's Well that Ends Well_ by William Shakespeare:

 _Our remedies oft in ourselves do lie,  
Which we ascribe to heaven: the fated sky  
Gives us free scope, only doth backward pull  
Our slow designs when we ourselves are dull._


	39. Curiouser and Curiouser

**My sincere apologies to Lewis Carroll.

Curiouser and Curiouser

 **1** _ **. Taking a Tumble**_

Sometimes, a bolt from the blue shook his world with so much force he didn't know how he was supposed to act. Didn't know whether to shout in indignation or ignore the situation altogether and revel in deniability. Capture by the Confederates was one, the Pinkerton agent and his missive was another. This was the third.

"Hey," Johnny said, sidling up to brush against his elbow. From what he said, his brother had driven cattle before, once to the coast and another to northern California. It may have been a desperate measure at a low point, as he had hinted at, but it was twice as much cattle experience as Scott had.

"What?" Scott gazed at the torn gloves from yesterday. They would be serviceable if he could re-stitch the fingertips on the right hand.

"Is all this about that well you two were talkin' about the other day?"

He took a deep breath, pondered Johnny's question. Finally spoke, "Last night, Murdoch asked me if I had any experience at accounting." The thought tugged a bitter smile and Johnny may have sensed it, because he turned to look at Scott, altered the unintentional gesture into something deliberate and picked at the stampede strings of his hat.

"Accounting. Can you believe it?" The well discussion had been lengthy, fruitless. The fact he commissioned a preliminary survey already did not sit well: a step over bounds. And now he had five missing cows to add to the mess.

 _Of course, I plan on staying._ Dying to wipe the smirk off Johnny's face, he blurted out the only words that had come to him that first morning in the bedroom. Sheer bravado, if a bit hasty.

The cowboys and vaqueros—despite being more hesitant towards the newest resident—had imparted their own particular brand of whimsy to his tally: a sopping wet bedroll, burs under his saddle blanket discovered after his horse steeple-chased its way to the stars, sand in his cookware, piss in his coffee. Called him the _Patron's_ son, never offered a hand, or word of encouragement. Their mothers had been Spartans, of that he was certain. After the sheer panic of the last few weeks, they needed something to engage their frustrations. But they had willingly worked beside him, though. He'd noticed that.

"Scott…"

"If that's what he wants, I should apply at the Green River Bank and Trust. Aside from the odd thief, or rancher who defaults on his mortgage, it would be a fairly quiet existence. Steady work. No cows. No digging."

Johnny nodded in mock sympathy. "Bound to pay more."

"With fewer saddle sores. Less blisters."

"Hours are kinda nice. You'd be able to get up later in the mornin'."

"Weekends and holidays off, too. It would further your cause for the one man deal. Rather, two-man deal." He said it jokingly, but there was the rub, because his brother looked up, an easy grin on his face, unaware or uncaring of Scott's inner melodramas. The fact of the matter was Johnny had his own peccadilloes to worry about.

"Look, don't worry about what the old man said."

It was easy for him to say. His brother smelled like trash fire, unwashed skin and wild. Of things beyond Scott. Already two drives under his belt, along with a host of other western experiences. But what Johnny didn't understand and what Scott couldn't say aloud yet, was that he feared Murdoch was right. The loss of cattle was just one thing in a long line of things destined to make him look foolish in the eyes of cowboys and fathers alike. Like clerking in a button factory or conducting a train, ranching was a profession he had never considered. That roping a moving anything was a disaster. That he didn't know a Hereford from a Longhorn.

Murdoch wasn't just talking about keeping the books when he mentioned accounting. What he really said was: _You'll never make it out here if you can't handle a few steers._

Scott folded the gloves in half, stuffed them into his saddlebag. "I need to get the mail."

"Wait." Johnny's hand was warm on his arm. "I'll finish up and meet you there, we can stop at the saloon, get a drink."

"I think I'd like that," Scott replied. "It's been a drought of town life this last month." He mounted, thought about it some more, "I'll see your one and raise you two."

Johnny smiled. "Don't start without me."

His brother had better hurry.

Green River was soon before him, the buildings and houses sprawled out, meandering in every direction like an admiral's wheel at the helm. Scott pulled up and tapped his fingers against the pommel. He had ridden from one season into the next with a definitive line of demarcation: vibrancy of spring withering to a brown sheen where trail met the town limits. Green River—well, it was by a river, anyway. Scott tightened the reins, urging his horse forward.

The town was busy, more so than Morro Coyo, the first one he'd chanced to visit thus far in his adventures. That day had left a sour taste in his mouth—being beaten and thrown into the street. An auspicious start, it made exploring the surrounding towns of Spanish Wells and Green River something less than thrilling. Yet here he was.

He looked down the boardwalk, saw the saloon. On the side of the building—a hastily built adobe and frame affair—was a huge and alarmingly bright mural of a robust young lady reclining on a chaise lounge. Her come-hither look was half faded by whitewash, but remained as demure as one could be with breasts the size of cannonballs.

"Shoot me now," Scott murmured, his brain addled by its sheer audacity. Surely art was in the eye of the beholder, but this _artiste_ was no Monet. He was mentally crossing off any prospective employment in town when he heard a scream.

His head snapped up. The scream was more of a high-pitched yell, he decided, and it came from within the depths of the mercantile. Scott left his horse and headed towards the sound of escalating din coming from the dry goods section of the store.

He jerked back in surprise when a creature the size of a well fed harbor rat bolted out between two barrels, bounced off a tripod of brooms, and wedged itself around the door and out. A split second later, a harried man stormed through the same barrels, cast wildly about before lodging his eyes on Scott. Not one of those kindly, grandfatherly—and the picture in his mind was _not_ of his own grandfather—type of retailers with sticks of peppermint or drops of horehound. This one looked as though he'd have no problem finding whatever it was that galloped outside and drop-kicking it through the store's plate glass window. So Scott maintained his composure, forced him to ask.

"Did you see…" and the shopkeeper trailed off, only to take a great gulping breath. "Did you see a dog?"

Even though he'd known Johnny for only a short while, he knew what his brother's answer would be to that. Instead, Scott nodded. "It's ah…" and waved vaguely towards the door.

"Thanks, Mister." With a shuddering heave, the man pivoted and trundled off.

Leaving the doorway, Scott passed by a row of lanterns, skirted around a bin of upturned crackers. Eleven o'clock on a Wednesday and the place was deserted. Murdoch had told him the mailroom and the mercantile were somehow attached. Nestled in the back, it was a veritable hole in the wall, advertised by the ubiquitous penciled-in "Mail" sign tacked above the opening. He rang the bell, waited, and was greeted by the sound of expiring canned goods. He tapped again, with more force.

"For chrissake's quit leanin' on the bell! I'm coming."

The voice came from behind him and in the same breathless tenor as the dog-catcher. Rather, judging by his empty hands, the dog-chaser. Exchanging his apron for a black visor, the storekeeper thumped and thudded his way through a side doorway and onto a tall stool.

"Malcolm McDaniel. What do you want?" He sat back on his perch, folded his arms, looking for all intents and purposes like an angry parrot.

Scott gamely forged on. "I'm here to pick up the mail for Lancer."

To his credit, Malcolm's face relaxed. "Murdoch Lancer?"

Wondering where this was all going, he nodded.

Malcolm leaned forward. "Then you'd be one of his new sons?"

Still at a loss, he nodded a second time, although the 'new' pricked the hairs on the back of his neck. "I'm Scott Lancer."

"I thought so. I was telling my sister just the other day since the Pardee business was done and over with that we'd see a Lancer back in town soon enough."

The fatted calf wasn't exactly being trotted out, but it was still a better reception than he received in Morro Coyo. As he looked on, Malcolm shuffled a few papers in a drawer and drew out a yellowed note.

"Here it is." Malcolm licked his pencil nub and scribbled. "Lancer is overdue on payment for goods rendered on the fifth." His left eyebrow rose a half inch. "Of last month."

The side of him that liked everything neat and orderly wept. He took the proffered note, checked the math and shoved it into a hip pocket. "My mail?"

"Oh, yeah, you got a bundle."

In this case, a bundle meant two newspapers, four letters, one of which was postmarked from Boston, a single sheet Montgomery Ward mailer and a brown-paper wrapped package. The mailer and newspapers had already been well used if the fingerprint smudges were any indication.

Embracing a hopeful countenance, Malcolm edged forward, his grin Christmas big. "Say, uh, that package came from an awful long ways away. We don't get very many things from back east. Must be something important, huh?"

Scott smiled, not with his teeth, and held it up like manna from heaven. "I'm sure it is." Then tucked it under his arm.

"Aren't you going to open it? It's addressed to you"

"I hadn't thought about it."

"But it might be, you know, something you should see to."

Scott looked at the post mark on the package; it had passed from Boston over a month ago. Whatever it held was well past the due date for anything significant. But he slid a finger under the twine anyway.

"Need a knife?" Malcolm prodded, producing a small one with disturbing alacrity.

The twine snapped off with a ping in two directions and the storekeeper tipped so far forward Scott could smell the tobacco on his breath.

It was a book, a slim volume he could carry in one hand.

"Is that all?" The stool squeaked in protest with the abrupt return of Malcolm's weight.

An envelope was caught in the string. He'd recognize the thick, wandering letters anywhere: Carter, that reprobate.

 _Boston, March 15th, 1871_

 _Dear Scott, You will laugh at me, and with some reason, when I tell you of my first visit to Tremont Street since your departure, but that is perhaps best saved for another letter. Fear not, good Sir, I defended your honor! I believe there are certain stereotyped phrases customary to congratulate those who venture away from home and hearth. One of them, according to the Boston pater familias, is 'utter foolishness'. However, knowing you as well as I do, I shall discard all rules and regulations, and wish you joy in the familiar words our friendship warrants, and assume you will find the book of some use. Not as useful as your Thoreau or Emerson perchance, but helpful in your current endeavors nonetheless. If your new home is half as happy as I desire it to be, you will be content. I have every cause to believe you will succeed. Yours most sincerely,_

 _Carter Willoughby_

Scott looked from letter to book, laughed quietly in disbelief.

Malcolm's mouth pulled into a half-grin, not quite amused. "Seems to me it's kind of a trifle to be mailing all the way out west. Somebody's idea of a joke or something?"

"Or something." He placed the letter inside the book and wrapped them both with the paper. "Thank you Mr. McDaniel, I'm off to meet my…the other new son at the saloon."

"You'll find it just shy of the granary. There's a pretty picture of a gal with…"

Scott held up a hand. "I've already seen it."

"…a real fancy way about her. An honest-to-goodness Frenchman painted it in exchange for his whiskey. He said her name's Lisette."

"He must have received the whiskey as advance payment."

"Huh?"

"The picture? On the outside of the saloon?"

"Oh, no. Crazy Max painted that one night when he got a toot-ful. I'm talking about the one inside, above the bar. The town council already voted on the one outside, they just ran out of whitewash before the job was done. Actually," Malcolm said, somewhat wistfully, "that one ain't half bad, either."

Eye of the beholder, indeed.

A man on a mission, Scott crossed the street. He opened the heavy door with one hand, took a long look inside. Just the bartender, a few patrons and the painting above the bar, like Malcolm had warned.

He had a habit of finding things in the oddest places. Their troop saddler turned out to be a conscripted master chef and from that point on they'd had stew, what Sergeant Tomlinson termed Bouillabaisse de Provençal. It was neither bouillabaisse nor Provençal, but all Virginia rock bass and wild onions.

Unlike its country cousin on the outside wall, the painting—as Tomlinson's fish stew—was superb, but finding it above the bar was akin to finding a cat driving a surrey. It should have been hanging in a museum.

He stood for a moment admiring it. Lisette, Malcolm had called her. She had light hair streaked with gold, resting beside the bank of a river. Incredibly, she seemed somehow more than the picture itself. Perhaps it was just a trick of shadows and lighting, but she looked in love.

He ordered a beer, and a shot of whiskey, took them to table, finishing both by the time he spotted two barmaids near the end of the counter, dallying with the bartender. One of them, with hair the color of a red sunset, caught his eye and winked. He tipped his head then looked away. Female companionship was not on the top of his to-do list.

Beer was the first thing that felt good in a long while. Nursing a second one, he sat back, opened the letter from his grandfather. Perfunctory news from the east coast. Harlan's disapproval of Carter's willingness to see that Scott needed to go west was well evident. He could only imagine the conversation between the tour de force that was Willoughby and his grandfather: Carter with his perfectly composed bonhomie face, pulled like a magician's coin from behind an ear, deliberately baiting Harlan into an argument. And to think, the two of them had apparently made it out alive to scrap another day. Today, he wished he was there to referee.

"Aren't you a little old for this?" A chipped fingernail dragged along the leather spine of the book, took it and flipped it open.

She flashed a beautiful smile, pushed back a loose strand of sunset. "How about a room? It'll set you back some, though."

Scott shrugged, eyed the line of freckles dancing across her shoulders that dipped between her breasts, felt a pang of regret. "I don't need a room."

"It's a nice one, with real cotton sheets. You won't want to leave," she jollied back and fussed one-handed with the buttons making a long stripe down the front of her dress.

He stood and took the book gently from her, placed it back in the wrapper. "I'm afraid I'm not in the mood for company today."

She angled out a spangled hip, brought up the same hand that had smoothed her hair back and laid it there. Scott waited for the angry retort, but received a steady look instead.

"I guess I shouldn't have touched your things." Flicked her eyes over him, assessing. "I'm the one who's sorry. It's not going so well is it, Mister?"

The apology was so contrite, so sincere, that Scott retreated back to his chair. "Not at the moment."

"Woman trouble?"

He hitched a shoulder, dropped low, protecting himself in the way he knew how and tossed out a grin. "No." The saloon door remained closed. Where was Johnny?

"Well if it's not a girl," she tapped her fingernail against his half empty beer glass, "and it's not drink, then it must be money."

"What would you do if you felt like quitting?" There, it was out in the open, far away from the people involved, but out nonetheless. He cringed as the offensive words rolled out. It wasn't his particular style to pack his bags and run.

"If it was bad enough, I'd leave."

There was the crux. His barometer for measuring the relative badness of things was skewed too far to the left. He'd had the worst of the bad and nothing else could compare. Except, inexplicably, when Murdoch asked him about Lancer's ledgers. He could hand wave all that business back in Boston. But here? Here he was standing at the edge of his known universe, unsure. He gave a cursory glance to the door again. Johnny wasn't coming.

"We all leave things, right, Mister? Maybe it's a matter of when it gets too hard to go on." She pulled on her capped sleeve, side-eyed the man pouring drinks. "Or maybe it's a matter of sticking it out for a while, until you're sure."

The bartender called to her—Belinda was her name—and she graced another dazzling smile. "Keep me in mind if I can do anything for you, sugar." He'd remember.

Swallowing the last bit of foam, he gathered the mail together and left a few coins on the table. It was a strange world when truth came from a saloon girl who lived upstairs in a nice room with real cotton sheets.

Scott urged his horse forward, eyes touching on the boggy ruts, then the woods, then the swallows swooping down to pick off the afternoon flies. His new pistol—so different from his cavalry issue—pressed against his thigh, was too heavy to be comfortable, but a relief to have it there just the same. He came to a familiar bend and Scott sat back, stretched out his legs in the stirrups.

It took him a moment to realize there was a pair of eyes on the far side of the trail, steady in the woods, down low about knee height. The eyes didn't move, were trained on him. Intent, like a cat watching a floundering bird. Except it wasn't a mountain lion or lynx, Scott saw as he dismounted and drew nearer. It was the mercantile dog, burred and marked with dirt.

He noticed the animal before he noticed the drop-off.

A difficult thing to miss, the dog, considering its coat was the exact color of burnt butterscotch. One misstep and he fell forward, a yell trapped in his throat, as he plummeted downwards.

He landed hard, one leg going out from under him and he somersaulted over and over, banged into a rock or two, a rolling bundle of bones and fabric there for anyone to see.

 **2.** _**An Introduction to Mr. Grey**_

One foot in front of his nose. One damn foot. Somehow the tree branch wriggled and snapped its way out his grasp. Even if he could reach it, which he couldn't, even if he could move, _which he didn't want to_ , it was no good. Pain was abstract, floating somewhere above him.

He probably should look up, see where it was he actually fell from, but it tired him just thinking about it. A blast of sunlight found his face. Too warm. He licked his lips, took a shallow breath.

"That's it. Take another."

The man's deep voice was close. So close, Scott could hear it over the rush of blood in his ears. Quite a feat that. A memory tugged at him, hard and sharp, but he couldn't pinpoint its origin.

"You're going to make me late, you know." There was a soft snick of a pocket watch closing. "That will never do."

Scott needed to steady himself. "Who…?" he whispered.

"Why me, of course. I can't be late."

A fist entwined in his shirt and tugged. A few jostled feet later, two thumps on his chest signified he was where the man wanted him to be. Scott's eyes opened and locked with the man. Curious—they were the color of the palest robin's egg. Hands snow pudding over sinew and veins. Almost spectral against the plaid of his waistcoat.

"Thomas Grey, at your service." He doffed his broad-brimmed hat to the side, showing a head of utterly white hair. "As you can see, I'm not. Grey, that is." From the quirk of his pale eyebrow, it seemed to be an old joke, perhaps told often. "No black, no red, no purple, definitely no grey. Yes, I'm never one to shilly-shally, I always stay firmly on one side of the fence."

Grey snapped open a fine gold watch as big as his palm, tsk'ing. "Getting later all the time." A pat to Scott's shoulder. "Have faith."

"Wait…"

"I must be off."

"Which…which side?"

Grey's answer was a distant laugh, his words floating back on a sigh. "Whichever one is right."

Only humor was holding him together. Pain was coming, he could sense it, Belinda walked—no, sashayed—towards him holding a beer in her hand. Was looking at him, smiling. When she bent down, he saw where her freckles ended, and he smiled back. All red and sun and golden.

He drifted back slowly, sorry for the headache that wouldn't let him stay asleep. Sorrier that Belinda was gone. Yet the swallows were back, making an unholy clatter in the trees. He tried to roll over, succeeded on the second try. Finally, he managed to sit back on his heels, hands resting slackly on his thighs. He checked for blood and broken bones, but aside from the knot on the back of his head and an ache in his knee, was intact as anyone who had just fallen ass over teakettle.

A boxy silver-something was half hidden by the tree root he'd just vacated. A flask. The word "DRINK" was written with a lilting scrawl on a half-note, tucked around the cap. As if he was a dullard, although at this point it was highly suspect.

Grey's, obviously. Hopefully. He lifted the cap, took a sniff. When nothing profound wafted upwards, he sipped. The cool spring water hit his tongue and it was good, so good against the heat of his mouth. His skin prickled, suddenly and sharply, when his headache contracted like a telescope, length by length, until it was just a pinpoint above his left eye. He took another drink for good measure and had lips to flask for a third when he spotted the handkerchief.

The neatly wrapped bundle also had a piece of paper tied around its linen rabbit ears: "EAT". If he had to fall into someone's lap, he was happy it was a man as droll as Grey. He would have enjoyed talking with him a bit more. Lucidly, this time. Chewing the end of a small block of cheese and a piece of dried apple, he found them to be quite good. He set to work and soon finished them both. When his equilibrium balanced with the intake of fruit and water, Scott found he could string together coherent thoughts, could find an oblique answer to the question of why he was where he was: one errant brown dog.

At the bottom, the hill he had tumbled down was furred lush green. Some distance away, a giant had squashed the landscape, brushed away the trees and left an ocean of smooth valley that led to Lancer. With his horse gone and the dog gone along with most of his pride, the walk back home was predetermined to be long.

Across the clearing, Grey strode past, the brim of his hat flopping up and down with each quick step. It dawned on him that Grey didn't have a horse with him, either. Perhaps he lived close by, had access to one.

Now was the time to think clearly. "Hello!"

The white head bobbed up and something fell from his pocket. He waved one hand in a small circle inconsequential, oddly delicate. "I must be going, she'll be savage if I've kept her waiting," he yelled back.

Effort was involved, but he stood on his own, brushing the dirt from his trousers. Then swayed so much he had to take a step back. Why didn't he remember? He'd met Grey before, he was sure of it. Was it a memory that had been tucked away with any number of his other ones? He had a library of them, alphabetized and shelved, but this one wasn't shaking free of its moorings.

He stumbled into a jog.

Scott pulled up when he found what Grey had dropped: a pair of gloves. He folded them over his belt and kept going. Getting through the underbrush was a little like navigating the streets of Boston drunk while blindfolded. Not that he'd tried it blindfolded, but any concept of smooth sailing through this foresty area was completely negated. Just as suddenly the trail hugged a blind spot and he was faced with a creek, too big to merely step over.

He found a few stepping stones, managed to get wet to the knees after slipping and sliding his way to the other side. In the quiet air, hazy with afternoon heat, came the sound of weeping. Deep, guttural cries that signaled the end of everything good.

By the time he'd recovered from the shock of hearing such wailing, Grey had vanished. Gone, perhaps even before he had turned the corner to the creek.

 **3.** _**A Canvas of Tears**_

A handsome property, it was circled by a windbreak of trees. The cabin was used, lived-in was probably a better word, but not cluttered, its door ajar. He thought there was a spatter of blood stains on the step into the cabin, but the red was mixed with yellow and white. Nothing more than paint.

The shadow inside was impenetrable from the doorway. Scott took a step forward, letting his eyes adjust. Slowly, details began to assert themselves: a soft fold of shirt, a cap pulled low. Dark-colored beard, hands gnarled around a bottle. A crumple of paper pushed carelessly to the side.

"She deserved better." The man's voice, just a notch above a whisper, vibrated with pain. "C'est la fin."

He gestured with the bottle. "Sit, if you want, Monsieur."

Scott took the bottle as it was passed to him. Had to catch his breath when the liquor burned and banged into the fruit and water. Absinthe. He made a face and the bottle's owner laughed, brittle and hard, an expression on his face that Scott couldn't quite work out because it held so many things that were at odds with each other: anger, fear and one that he could only identify as love.

There was a quiet friction of calloused hand against wood, then the soft slide of paper unfolding. "She was…magnifique." His voice was different. Soft and sad, edges blunted by liquor.

"What was her name?" Scott asked, knowing the answer before he spoke.

Lisette, he said, and despite being strangers, Scott thought of the painting above the bar and wanted to make it better.

"I never wanted to leave her. Michel Durand never runs." As his stained fingers tightened around the neck of the bottle, he whispered like a secret was about to be passed, "But this time, this time I did." An undercurrent of something so far beyond sadness moved in his words.

"Do you know what it is like to love someone?"

Laughter came to mind with soft brown hair and the barest hint of lavender. "I thought I loved someone once," Scott said. Of angry words shouted beneath a sycamore tree, arrowed with guilt. "It wasn't to be."

The licorice smell of absinthe filled the room, vied with the turpentine already there. "It's the way of a young man, I think."

Michel's attention was on the whorls of plaster between the wallboards, faded to a dull grey from bright white. His face was held so still Scott didn't know if he was going to yell or cry, or throw him out of the cabin.

Finally, he nodded. "Ma Lisette est morte. Is dead."

There was a time to interrupt and a time to let go, Scott didn't need to fill every moment with talk, even after a startling admission like this one.

"It was a year ago and I was full of the world. She was eighteen and hadn't been past the edge of her small town. She was everything good that I wasn't, Monsieur. With her, I knew I wanted to make a bed, have a home, stay in one place."

His eyes came up, ominous. "Sa mère me détestait…her mother hated me."

"Did her mother," Scott started then caught himself, unsure. What a thing to ask. Michel watched him as he tried to find the words. _Did her mother drive you away?_

"I expected to burn in hell for that single night, the night we spoke of love." Michel's face softened, Scott saw something of a younger man, but there was too much bleakness. He had to remind himself to remain still, because he wanted out of the cabin, to go outside and take a lungful of good sunshine.

Michel tapped the paper once; face white as desert bleached bones. "Une tragédie, they call it. She…she walked into the cold water and never came out."

"Her mother did not approve." Michel's brows crooked together, like he was holding in, or holding back. His mouth opened and shut. "Whore," he breathed out, lips working. "Her mother called her that."

"I refused to take her away. We argued. I couldn't come between Lisette et sa mere, to take her to another life that was not easy. I had nothing. " Silent tears tracked down his face. "I let her go. She carried no shame. It's all mine."

Scott saw a longing so deep and vast that he could scarcely name it. He took the bottle and emptied it into a glass, pushed it forward. Michel downed it in one swallow then tried to stand, falling back to his chair. His lips moved with words so quiet Scott didn't hear them at first.

"Lisette, Lisette…" A lament, as if he'd been waiting twelve months to say it. "Goodbye, my love, goodbye." He swung his head wildly. "What am I to do?" he demanded.

Scott wished he could give an answer. What would be the thing to say? He had no answer that wouldn't result in something wrong or condescending or judging, no matter how badly it was needed, instead held out his hand, and Michel's jerked in response, tipping the bottle over. He set it upright, tried not to look at Michel, half afraid the man would read what was on his face.

A narrow bed was aligned against the far wall, mussed with a knot of sheet and tangled blanket. He helped Michel onto it. Straightening, he surveyed the man again, fearful he missed something. As he pushed away from the bed, there was a groan of ropes under the thin mattress as Michel shifted.

"Monsieur, I never wanted to leave her…I never left her."

Easier to leave than to be left. Not a new thought, but strange now thinking about it from the vantage point of being the one who was leaving. The idea sat like a useless third leg, and Scott couldn't think beyond it.

He nodded, even as Michel's eyes closed.

Outside, the sun gave a false pretense of hope with its brightness. In a small clearing, not too far from the end of the cabin, sat an easel tilted up on three legs, a mason jar of brushes. He brushed a spider's web away from the canvas. A thick braid of sleek golden hair fell across her shoulder like a fat kitten, as though it would have a name and eat from her hand. She had a grace about her, a tease of a smile hovering at the corner of her lips. An image someone could easily love.

In his estimation, dying was easy. You just go. Living was the hard part. All Michel had left were his sketches and memories. Scott looked back to the cabin, wondered if it would be enough.

The third leg kicked. Leaving. Not where he was going or what Murdoch would do with it. He suspected those two items were perhaps the things his father would think about. The hot dry air swirled around him. Clamping his jaw shut seemed to be the only way to deal with it, and the suffocating melancholia that had sputtered to life. It was draped about him like a heavy winter coat. Unnecessary and unwanted.

 **4.** _**Advice from a Fisherman**_

Scott had a walk ahead of him and no plan, which was so much out of the ordinary he looked up, sure the sky was falling. A soft plunk of something hitting the water got his attention.

He'd set himself up: a blanket, a basket, a canteen and a hat riddled with enough hand-tied lures to entice half the fish in California. His skin was dark, as dark as Thomas' was light, with shoulders ax-handle wide. A little stooped as he sat, but there were still muscles bunched under the faded work shirt. Salt and pepper hair curled down his neck, disappearing into his upturned collar. A fishing pole lay forgotten in one hand.

"Been a good while since you visited, Thomas. Now why is that?" were the first words out of his mouth, which twitched slightly. The voice—a deep baritone—was unexpected.

Scott looked behind him, but there was no one else. "I'm afraid you have the wrong man."

The man stood heavily and out of balance, like he'd been sitting a while, and gestured with his pole. "Come over here and hold this for me. I need to see about my string." His hand patted the air until thick fingers latched onto Scott's shoulder and squeezed. "Damn, boy, you lost weight?"

Scott took the pole and watched him pull up the pegged line. Pink-bellied mountain trout, counted out one by one and, according to the fisherman, were all where they were supposed to be. He tapped a booted toe against the ground. "I'm not him…I'm not Thomas Grey."

Turning towards Scott, the man cocked his head as if he suspected something was wrong, but couldn't quite figure out what. A sudden blink of milky eyes that stared but didn't see. "Huh. Same sound to your words, but a little different, too. Thought sure he was paying me a visit. He's a good man, that Thomas.

"Didn't hear a horse, been walking a while?" He waved towards the bank where the blanket had been spread. "It's a hot day, better have a seat."

His name was Perch, had lived in the woods for most of his life after a few early years in Kansas. He'd come west for the gold, stayed for fishing. He rooted around in the basket, came out with a paper wrapped sandwich, handed Scott half of it like he'd been expecting him. "What are you doing all the way out here?"

Scott grabbed a corner of blanket and settled himself on the bank. "I don't know exactly," he replied, stuffing a mix of beef and bread into his mouth, talking around it. Manners didn't seem to matter so much sitting beside a fishing pole and water.

Perch had a pipe in his pocket and drew it out. "Well, who are you?"

"I knew who I was when I got up this morning, but things have changed drastically since then. On most days, I'm called Scott, among other things as of late."

The man's grin was quick and bright under seams of scarred skin. "Are you sure you're not related to Mr. Grey?"

Perch was wondering something else, Scott knew that right away, could tell from the concentration he was putting into his pipe. Reached into a pouch for two fingers of tobacco, tamping it in just so. He was mesmerized by the mechanics of putting the smoke together—Perch's fingertips agile in the doing—and went for a matchstick, their hands bumping.

"If you move things around, I'll never find them. Been this way for a long time, I know what I'm doing."

Scott dropped the matchstick, felt foolish.

Pausing between one puff and the next, Perch's hand curled around the bowl of the pipe, poised, perhaps judging him. "You sound like a sensible boy, no blinders."

It wasn't what he was expecting. Improbably, he felt a flush creep up his neck. "Oh, I have blinders." Lost cattle and ledgers and just about everything that Scott had received as truth about Murdoch Lancer from Grandfather because it was easier to accept that than to look underneath. A moment, then he crammed the rest of the sandwich into his mouth, brushed crumbs from his chest, wished he didn't smell so much of sweat and desperation.

It was just this accounting business signaled time's up in a way Scott could no longer ignore, meant he had to do something, couldn't keep telling himself that it would be all right.

Perch took a pull from his pipe, let the smoke drift away. "Go on, send it out."

Scott lifted the fine bamboo pole, light as a feather, and cast. The line arched from the reel, kissed the top of the water. He smiled, knew any fish in its right mind would take the fly and ask for more.

Perch wore a bemused look. "I used to keep goats at the house."

He looked over, surprised. Perch was a surprising man altogether.

"Hear me out, now." A father with a spoonful of horrible tasting medicine, about to tell Scott something that would do him good. "A few acres not too far from here, and every so often the coyotes would pay me a visit. They're mean creatures, tricky. They knew a good meal when they saw one, and I had twelve good dinners snuffling the grass around my barn."

"What did you do to protect them?"

Perch nodded, like it was the right question to ask. "I got myself a dog."

"How did that work out?"

Perch rolled out a laugh. "Like fire and water, at first. Dogs have to follow their nose, he scattered those goats. Chasing, having fun." He might have continued but both were momentarily distracted by the slap of fish in the water.

Scott flicked his wrist, sent the line hopping back and forth.

"Goats are smart, but the dog was smarter. Every day he watched and he listened, took his time to figure out who was who and learned how they got along, their ways. Pretty soon the goats got so used to him, they thought he was one of their own. The dog knew better, it stayed with the goats, but wasn't a goat. It protected and kept them where they should have been kept. And the fact that the dog wasn't a goat didn't matter one bit anymore."

"Are you saying I'm a dog?" That earned another laugh. "I think my brother would find that funny."

He thought of Johnny, curled under the oak tree. Spent and bloody. Of himself coughing through the smoke of gunfire. And Murdoch's sweaty face, demanding— _look at your brother—_ all of them ensnared in Pardee's whirlwind, blown to one side and another like so many scraps of paper.

The Lancer army of three in a bedroom, Murdoch's eyes penny bright, hands stained dark red. Johnny, feverish already around a bone white bandage, no need to look so morose because he'd chosen a side, hadn't he—but he'd been doing so much more. Riding alone. And Scott wanted to be anywhere that wasn't there with either of them. Because he would never be like them.

Perch placed his hand on Scott's shoulder. "That dog didn't know what he was doing at first. Didn't mean it wouldn't work out. Sometimes all anyone needs is patience and the want." He dropped his hand, picked up his pipe again. Waited for him to catch up.

The line jerked and Scott bided his time until the fish turned downward. There. He palmed the reel, teasing back and forth, then pulled. A second too soon. A flash of tail fin and it disappeared into the water.

"Thought you had him caught. You'll try again?" Perch was talking about casting, but what Scott had in mind was something else entirely.

 **5.** _ **A Second Appointment with Mr. Grey**_

He'd left Perch with his string of fish some time ago and had limped along the river's path until he came to a bend, executed a column left and kept moving westerly towards Lancer. Even without checking his own watch, he could guarantee his late arrival back to the ranch.

Scott wasn't quite sure how Grey did it. He occupied enough space that the air pressure got pushed around and made you aware of his presence, without really seeing him. But then he _was_ there, walking along in the forest. His long-legged pace hadn't slowed any, but this time he seemed to be looking around to either side of him, as if he had lost something. Not bothering to think about it much, Scott called out.

Grey looked up. "It's you again. I'd thought you would have found your way back home by now." He stopped and raised an eyebrow. "Is something wrong?"

Despite Grey being a stranger, especially one who'd witnessed his spectacular tumble, Scott felt at ease, almost familiar, with him. "I think I did injure something," he sighed, feeling his knee with his fingers. "I've had worse, though."

A grin popped up on Grey's face. "I'm sure you have, with the style I saw." His laughter hung in the air.

"I'm just not getting too far along."

"Are you sure you want to?"

"Well, yes. What do you mean?"

Grey's hand fluttered a little, fell to his side. "I've done that many times—not gotten too far along. Not getting anywhere on purpose is best, however. Lots of work, but absolutely worth it." He patted his waistcoat. "I seem to have lost my gloves."

Scott unloosed the pair from his belt. "I've got them right here."

"Those are yours, I'm looking for mine."

"But I saw you drop them."

Grey pushed his hat to the back of his head, puzzled. "You did?"

Scott nodded.

"Let's see. No, the color is all wrong," he held the pair under his chin, "makes me look sallow. We can't have that. Keep them, I have another pair—somewhere." Grey pointed to an opening in the forest. "My home is right over there, shall we search? But we'll have to hurry, the Queen will have my head if I'm not on time."

"Queen?"

"The name of a rather conceited individual. Unfortunately, the lass who claims it doesn't rise to its regal attributes."

Continuing on, matched stride for stride, the trail narrowed and came out into a clearing where a small house was just visible. As they got closer, Scott saw a bright brass plate near the door, with the name T. Grey engraved upon it.

Scott stepped over the threshold, hesitated. "Do I know you from somewhere?"

Grey smiled at him, as if seeing him in a fundamental way—pried open, his innermost thoughts flopping about in the air. "Do you? Perhaps it's the accent."

They spoke about museums they both knew, about hopping a streetcar and riding from the west end of Boston all the way to Harvard Square. About restaurants in St. Louis, which one had the best steak, about women—always about them.

And in between, Thomas opened drawers, and looked behind chairs, for gloves. He peered at Scott with sharp eyes. "Tell me you're not going back east."

Scott rubbed his finger across the fine grain of dark cherry table. "I think about it."

 _When Murdoch entered the great room, the sun was already low in the sky, slanting through the window at a steep angle. Scott sat in a side chair, not as fancy as the one in Boston, but just as uncomfortable. His father clattered around the sideboard for a bit, opened the cabinet, searching. Scott saw him look at the bottle of whiskey, weighing out the need for a steady hand with the need to wipe away the day's events._

" _Scott?" It was past the dinner hour. The stove had been kept warm, so he was expecting an invitation to decide between leftover roast beef or rosemary chicken, but got instead, "I heard from Cipriano there are five cattle missing."_

 _Straightening, Murdoch leaned against the counter, face serious. Trying so hard, and Scott didn't think he could bear it. Maybe if he held very still, this would just pass, Scott had said all he wanted to back at the pasture, he was tired. But Murdoch looked right at him, so he shifted on the chair, came to a stand because a conversation with Murdoch Lancer demanded the attention. "I lost them."_

 _His father nodded. Grey whiskers showing at the end of the day, he looked rough, dark marks under his eyes punctuating his weariness. His fingertips grazed the green ledgers sitting on the edge of his desk. He'd been working on them last night, long after Scott and Johnny had gone to bed. Now this new loss was one more item to be marked in the debit column, and there were too many there already._

 _Looking steadily at Scott, his brows came together as though he were worried, but Scott had learned it was an expression that could mean anything from worry to interested to thinking hard about something that had nothing to do with the situation at hand. "I know your grandfather was an astute accountant at one time. Do you have any experience at book keeping?"_

He scowled a little. "It's quiet here, compared to city life. Or maybe the sounds are just different. How do you stand it?" Scott said, refusing a glass of brandy. He still had a walk ahead of him, a number of miles, probably in the darkness. He was already feeling his muscles seizing up, his knee swelling slightly.

"I seem to manage. As Emerson says, 'Always do what you are afraid to do'. There's some truth to that, you know." Grey laughed, held up his hands. "What else _can_ you do?"

He'd been in California for a long time, had sailed around the Horn, because overland was just too involved with schedules and filled with unreliable methods of transportation. Friends had stayed where the wind was wild and skies cloudy, but Grey was doing well. Although he still missed the ferocity of eastern storms.

"There are the odd times when civilization calls me," Thomas said, then joined Scott in maligning Green River and the lack of available whitewash, Morro Coyo and its reputation for hiding out criminals like Pardee and others.

Grey's pale face bore the signs of every day life, lived to its fullest. So too did his eyes, never resting, they traveled over Scott's face like it was a map to somewhere interesting. "Sometimes, though, you get an itch to move." He looked around the room. "I've been here for a while, the house is too full of memories to leave, this land is mine. What do you have, Scott?'

"The eastbound?" Scott said, only half meaning it. But he had followed the line of reasoning and it registered. Scott wanted it, all right. He cared. Cared more than he could have dreamed of and it didn't make anything better, his wanting, not at all.

Grey was up again to pace the floor, finally pulled open the doors of a mahogany cabinet, one he'd already checked. Scott realized the man was giving him time.

He pulled open a drawer. "Aha! Here they are." Brand new gloves. He flipped open his watch. "I dare say I will be late to the fandango." He shrugged. "She'll have to understand, it just can't be helped."

They stepped outside and it was still warm, cloyingly so. Silently, Scott followed Grey back to the trail near the river where they would split off.

"You should think about that stagecoach," Grey said when they reached the turn-off, "ride it all the way back east."

Scott drew up to his shoulder. It broke him, that bleak suggestion. Suggested that Scott just give up, and despite his original determination, it made him think. If he could babble to a man he hardly knew, then he could carry on a conversation with his father.

 **6.** _**M.A.D.**_

The fire, small and carefully built, was burning among a ring of stones. The stones held a coffeepot, being warmed. A red roan, its spade bit decorated with silver conchos was tethered close by.

Two men were there, and Scott watched them curiously. One looked to be asleep, his head tucked in the crook of his arm. But the other. Dressed in leather leggings Johnny called chaparejos, and an elegantly embroidered white shirt, here was a man who attracted attention, courted it. Especially his wide-brimmed sombrero. The weave around its low crown was outlined with bands of grey and black, interspersed with deep yellow. If the hat held a personality—and it did in a way—Scott would have to say it was ferocious.

The banding reminded him of the rat snake he'd found enjoying a free meal outside the corral one evening. Slithery things had held a certain dislike since he was seven and Victor Hensley had put a simple garden snake down his shirt. Caught in the cloth it writhed there until, in his haste to pull the shirt open, the buttons finally popped off. He didn't know who as more relieved, him or the snake.

At the moment Scott spotted him, the man was fashioning a small muslin bag. After tying it off, he dropped it into the pot, and moved it closer to the flames. A perfume of coffee had made its way around to where he was standing.

"Come down. Join us." The voice was soft in a sing-song sort of way, friendly. The horse turned its shaggy head, nickered, and the man answered, "Shh, Adelita, we have plenty of room."

He stood as Scott approached, doffed his sombrero in an exaggerated bow. "Maximilian Antonio Diaz. Come, have some wine."

Scott looked around the camp site. "I don't see any," he said, not really caring how demented it sounded.

"There isn't any," Maximilian remarked.

"Then why did you offer it?"

"Why do you spy on me like a common thief? It's a question of civilities, Señor." He gestured to the fire. "I will show you the proper way."

Three tin cups, in addition to the two already there on the fire ring, were brought out of his saddlebags. Even if there was one for the horse, there were still too many. Was Diaz expecting more company?

He looked at Scott for a long moment. "You're too white. You need a hat."

Scott's hand went to his head, fingered the lump on the backside of it. "I happened to lose it earlier."

Maximilian winked. "Why is a horse like a turnip?"

"What?"

"A horse. You know, the thing that is standing behind me with four hooves. Although my Adelita is not just a thing, eh?" He looked to the trees where Scott had come. "Do not tell me you lost your horse, too?" He wagged his head back and forth in a sawing motion, designed to comfort.

"Well, yes…it's lost. A lot of things are today, it seems." Scott arranged his face to bland interest, a face that usually fooled no one.

"What's the name?"

"I'm Scott Lancer."

"No, no. The horse, Señor. You must pay attention."

Scott cleared his throat, lifted a shoulder and shrugged.

Maximilian stared. "He has no name? No wonder he's lost. Maybe he ran away—a horse needs a good name if he's to belong to someone. Come sit."

As he sat on a sun-heated rock, his thoughts meandered around to horses and turnips. The former he was well-acquainted with, the latter he took a stance of not caring in the least, so long as they weren't on his plate. "I don't think…"

"Then you shouldn't talk," said Maximilian.

"You're extremely rude." Oh, brilliant reply. He was between river and valley, between town and hacienda, between Murdoch and…just between. And being here, wherever here _was_ , felt like one of those frenzies the work crew was obliged to bring him to every now and then, just to prove the easterner wasn't so smart and logical.

Scott roused himself out of his flummox, gathered his wits as though they'd fallen out a hole in his pocket. He didn't know what kind of man Maximilian Antonio Diaz was, not yet, but he was going to find out. Home could wait a while. He was fussing with the muslin bag and every so often Scott sniped a glance at him, watched what he was going to do.

Acting like rudeness was a foregone conclusion, a trifle not be worried about, the vaquero sloshed the bag around in the water, then flung it away to the grass. "He's asleep," he said, and dripped a bit of hot coffee on his companion's nose. "Mouse, get up and tell us a story."

The man's arm flew spasmodically across the space between them, almost connecting with Scott's nose. He struggled to wakefulness, seemed to push a layer of invisible blankets from him. Coming up on his elbows, he blinked around warily, looking confused for a minute.

"Tell us a story," Maximilian prodded. "¡Ándale!, before you fall asleep again."

Mouse gave a hitching sigh. "It was a bad beginning all right. Fletch and me were riding night guard, when we decided to take ourselves to the fire to get a mite warmer. It was close to April and still colder than a frog's behind. When all of a sudden," his eyes bulged, "them bedded cattle jumped right up, took to their feet and stampeded!"

"Señor," Maximilian called out softly, trying to get Scott's attention from the tiny grizzled man next to him.

"Take some more coffee."

"I haven't had any yet."

"Some is better than any. And much better than none. It's very easy to get confused."

He was going to get a headache—on top of the one already nipping at his frontal lobe—from following Maximilian's shoddy logic. "I'm not confused, I believe you are."

"I offer you coffee and you resort to name calling? Perhaps you don't know the customs of this land. Who is being rude now?"

Scott gritted his teeth, reached for a cup. "What happened to the cattle?"

Mouse yawned, eyes drifting shut. Maximilian leaned over and kicked the sole of his boot, hard. He woke with a jump. "Me and Fletch, we weren't born in no woods to be scared by an owl, so we took off after' em. Why them cows got so close to the rest of the boys, they felt their hair flutter. Fletch galloped to the lead, gun blazing. Well, sir, he shot them bullets right in front of Old Ezekiel's nose and he turned that steer. We got' em all going in one big circle, like a regular wagon wheel." Mouse's face went somber and he shook his head. "But then probably the worst thing that coulda happened, happened."

Scott leaned forward. "Someone was caught under the hooves? The cattle stampeded again?"

"My pal, Fletch…he…he lost his hat. Somewhere between when he turned' em and when I caught up with' im. Bare-headed as the day he was born."

Maximilian groaned and shook his head. "Say it isn't so, mi amigo."

Nonplussed, Scott sat back. "You're joking, right?"

"Pard, it was his _hat_. And that wasn't even the worse of it. The company store wouldn't sell him another, 'cause them steers had the audacity to stampede on a Saturday night."

If there was a point, he wasn't getting it and it must have showed because Mouse stared at him incredulously.

"You can't buy nothin' on the Sabbath, he had to wait until the next day before he could get another."

"Oh, well, I can see where that might be a problem." Not really, he didn't see anything resembling a problem. But Maximilian and Mouse nodded at each other and somehow Scott felt like he wasn't even sitting there. Had he been fooled? Again? Those five lost Lancer steers came to mind, how he had them secure behind the fence in the north pasture. Or so he thought.

"Do you have to go so soon?" Maximilian suggested, tagging on to Scott's thoughts, if not the gravity. Hard to be serious when you've equated the solemnity of the Sabbath with a lost hat.

"The Circle Bar W is just over the next rise, they have many fine horses there. I would give you a ride, since we are invited to the fandango," he said, "but my Adelita is already carrying more than she wants."

That was his cue, Scott got to his feet. "Señor Diaz, before I go, I have just one question. Why _is_ a horse like a turnip?"

Diaz looked perplexed. "I have no idea. But when we meet again, I will make you a hat, perhaps a Poblano for a gringo like you. In yellow and red. You need some color in all that brown. Adios, Señor."

 **7** _ **. Chasing a Pig**_

As the crow flies was always longer than it looked. With the Circle Bar W still some distance away, Scott looked at the house he had lurched upon and shook his head, trying clear the fuzz. Dizziness had come on without warning.

A little girl with tousled blond hair, her arm curled tight around a stuffed animal of sorts, met him halfway to the door. Her mouth curved into a pink "o", eyes going wide. "Mama! My brother's home."

Shearing light sliced the yard into a thousand shards of broken glass, glancing through him like warm butter. His head hit something hard and he panicked, flailing out, scrabbling air.

Noise from inside the house, a slide of heels against wood. "Lizzie, where's your brother? Where's Joel?"

"He's right over there in the grass, Mama. He's taking a nap."

"What on earth? Andrew!"

Pounding footsteps came across gravel, but he hardly cared, darkness was calling. He welcomed it.

Scott sighed, enjoying the feel of sturdy cushions against his back instead of dirt or grass. The scent was an odd mix of lemon verbena and hay, this time it wasn't Thomas Grey he awakened to.

"Mama? Is he dead?" The tiny voice made a further breach into the darkness, and he opened his eyes.

An older version, with the same hair and eyes, reached out, grabbed Scott's chin with warm, long fingers. He flinched, pulled away. "What happened to you, Mr. Lancer?"

She nodded towards his wallet on the side table at his look. "When a man is laid out in my parlor; I have a right to know who he is."

He stumbled over his words like a drunk. "Fell, hit my head." He gestured with his hands, hoping she'd get the rest—no weapon, no horse—without him saying too much more, his headache was pistoning towards lethal stage.

"My husband helped you into the house. I'm Helen Lathey." The little girl on her lap squirmed to be let down. "Lizzie here thought you were her brother. My son left for San Francisco…a while ago. She got confused."

He slipped his legs over the edge of the seat, sat hunched until she folded a cold, wet cloth across his neck, then melted back against the couch in relief.

Farm noises wriggled their way into his hearing: a cow, chickens, the bang of an outside door. But inside it was quiet, and a bit disconcerting to have two pairs of the same green eyes staring at him.

He searched around for a thread of conversation. "How does your son like the city?" Her lips clamped for a moment, and it was like a boil needing lanced, infected, painful. She didn't nod, she shrugged.

"Joel's due today sometime," she continued, rolling over his question like it wasn't there, "we expected him before now, though."

A butterscotch-colored ball of fur sat beside the fireplace grate. Looking at him with mild expectation, perhaps the dog remembered their last encounter on the trail, since a big canine-grin creased its face. It ptoo'ed a ball out of its mouth, skittered back against the grate in anticipation. _Ready_. The ball rolled over, bumped against Scott's boot. He angled, punted it out of the parlor. Instead of going after it, the dog stuck his head behind the pool of curtain on the floor below the window and retrieved another.

"You start with him and you'll be here all day. He's got ten more stashed around the parlor. But he's not supposed to be in the house. Lizzie, take him outside."

While mother and daughter were arguing the merits of dogs and clean houses, he took a chance and stood. Remarkably, the landscape fluttered only once and settled into its usual order. Helen clamped a surprisingly strong hand around his elbow and steered him out of the parlor and across the hall.

She poured, but her heart—and mind—wasn't in it. He moved the cup under the spout to prevent a spill.

"It's like a greased pig. Have you ever…" She looked at him, came to a conclusion. "No, I would guess not. What I mean to say, you have to chase after it and pursue it. Run it down, tackle it and when it gets away, you go after it one more time. I don't know why men especially, young and old, seem to have a problem with that."

She sat down beside him and took her own cup, held it captive between her palms. "It's not what people expect from you. Doesn't mean you can't make it happen." Her rising anger slipped away as suddenly as it had come and she ran her thumb across the back of her hand. Worried, for all her strong words.

Andrew walked into the kitchen, calling a halt to the one-sided conversation. The amber light caught him full in the face and turned him yellow, lit his eyes on fire. He hadn't shaved in a while, looked like he'd be more at home behind a rifle than a plow. "The wagon's almost loaded, if he's not here by then we'll go on to the Heart's." He looked at Scott, seemed to _see_ him for a second, and his brows came together as though he were angry. "You all right?"

Scott shifted in his seat, realized he was sticky with sweat and it was warm and maybe it was just time to leave, but he sure as hell wasn't going to tell Andrew Lathey the whole mess had been started by his dog. "The short rest and this coffee have set me to rights."

Andrew raised his eyebrows: _you could've fooled me_. He poured a cup of coffee, laced it with sugar and scoured Scott with a stare.

None of what caused the bleak overtones in the Lathey house was any of his business, so he searched for some platitudes about the weather until he could choke down his coffee, tell them thank-you and be on his way, via hoof or foot.

A door slammed from the front of the house. Everyone in the kitchen ceased movement, for all appearances a daguerreotype, sepia-toned in the sunlight. Helen caught her breath when the man—boy—came into the kitchen.

So gaunt he looked like a Belle Isle escapee, he cleared his throat, embarrassed perhaps. A layer of plaid and rough canvas covered him, boots once good now near the end of their usefulness. A spot darkened his left cheek—a wisp of yellowed bruise. Mostly, though, it was the expression in his eyes, and Scott recognized it immediately: a mix of worry and fear, crowned by a hint of guilt.

Andrew drew close and Scott watched the current run between father and son, the direction of it. He knew which way it would go, and it made him prickly with concern.

"How long?" Andrew snapped like a cat o' nine-tails and that stopped Joel cold, arms wrapped around his chest.

"Pardon?" It was an automatic response, and Scott could tell Andrew hated having to explain himself.

"How long?" Andrew repeated after a long moment, voice grating low. "How long did you plan this?"

Joel blinked once, not understanding. Not getting what it was that his father was asking. Was insinuating.

"Pa," he whispered. "I…"

But Andrew was shaking his head, the sweet coffee forgotten on the table. "You left without a word." Not a question at all, but the why was there all the same.

Joel looked at his father, examining him like he found an insect under a magnifying glass, a bewildering new discovery. Andrew stared back, kept his eyes on Joel's bruised cheek, managed to keep his face from crumpling, but fear was written across it.

He lobbed a look at Scott, realized a stranger sat at the table. Close enough to hear. "Next time," Andrew said, the hoarseness a concession to how long Joel was gone from home. "Next time, you tell me what you've got planned."

It was scaring the woman and from the little of what Scott had seen that wasn't an easy thing to do.

Joel asked for coffee, but Andrew said they were done, that he needed help in the barn, they were leaving soon and he could get a cup at the neighbor's.

Father and son circled each other like they were at Appomattox Court House, dignified and hackled. The boy didn't look at his father, though everything in his stance was attuned to him. A direct stare was a challenge. And Joel's eyes kept bouncing from the table to the door, while Andrew spoke. He turned his head away. In the reflection of the harsh afternoon sun, he looked ill. Torn.

Only a father threw orders around like that; only a son would follow them without so much as a twitch. He wondered what it would be like having Lathey for a father, knowing nothing but black and white. The right way, the only way, being his. How difficult to live under one roof together.

Scott polited around, made an inane excuse and stepped outside, collected himself like the dog and his toy balls.

Didn't matter which way you went as long as you got somewhere. He'd forgotten who had told him that—it was much too vapid for Grandfather—and how long ago it had been. Leaving Boston mirrored Joel's adventure in San Francisco—he wanted something he couldn't find at home.

Scott peeled open his wallet. The Pinkerton card given to him by Agent Welby was wedged between a one and five. He carried it like a talisman, that maybe he existed outside the confines of board member meetings and blue uniforms, that he had a place in California, not just a piece of Murdoch Lancer's flotsam, debris from a shipwreck twenty-four years earlier.

Off-kilter, everything was wrong. Couldn't identify what it was making him feel. He didn't have to know; he stretched, all his vertebrae clicking into place like the westbound B & O coming into its wheels leaving the station. It didn't matter.

There was nothing to break his fall, not this time. But it felt clean. Honest. If he failed it would be on his own terms. Not his Grandfather's—certainly not his father's.

 **8.** _**Holding Court at the Circle Bar W**_

Andrew Lathey released the brake and flicked the reins over a pair of draft horses. With a hitching start, the wagon pulled away from their homestead pointed towards the Circle Bar W. Joel Lathey rode a few paces behind, sullen and quiet. In the bed of the wagon, however, it was neither sullen nor quiet. He shared it with Lizzie.

"How…" Scott tried, but Lizzie just coasted right over him, as relentless as a riptide pulling in a swimmer.

Helen turned, gave a wobbly smile. "Hush, love, maybe the man doesn't want to talk. Come up here with me."

Lizzie made a little noise of disgust. He sat back against the side railing as she scrambled to an uncoordinated stand, legs and arms akimbo, uncontrolled as a bag of mice. She reached up and Helen swept her around to her lap.

She nodded to the large house ahead. "Mr. Lancer, that's the Heart ranch. Their fandango is the biggest one around here, held every year. It's owned by Willem and Abigail Heart. Only don't call her Abigail. Lord knows she hates it. She goes by Queenie." She stopped and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "A most ridiculous nickname, but there it is: the Queen of Heart's."

It was laughable, but Scott caught the flinch Helen gave and wondered if there was more to it than merely a name. He only had a short time to wonder before they pulled into the courtyard.

Andrew nodded to a lanky cowboy, called him Clark. Heart's foreman. He wore his yellow hair long, an untrimmed beard, and had bright, serious eyes. With no other information, Scott would have pegged him as dangerous—there was something about his stance he couldn't identify. But Clark was tying off the horses without so much as a glance.

Heart walked to the wagon, solidly built, a paunch beginning to creep over his belt. He nodded to the Latheys, eyed Scott with interest. "Welcome! Come down to the house, Queenie went all out this year. We'll even have some dancing later on."

Andrew spoke up, "This is Scott Lancer. He's had a bit of trouble this afternoon. Hoped he could borrow one of your horses to get home. You know my mare is down."

A softly rounded woman, with the blackest hair Scott had seen, her face flushed with the heat, walked up and stood side by side with Heart. He turned, a happy grin breaking through the wrinkles. "Mr. Lancer, my wife. My dear, this young man has had an accident, needs to borrow one of our horses."

Queenie wasn't a large woman, but the steady look—almost a stare—under arched eyebrows gave her presence. She laughed, hard and sharp as a slap. "Willem, surely you remember, we'll need the mounts for tomorrow's drive."

Heart looked questioningly at his wife, but tipped his chin to his foreman standing behind her shoulder. "One horse won't make a difference. Clark, take Mr. Lancer to the stables, get him set up."

Her eyes narrowed, swept over her husband. "Well. That seems to be settled," she said, tacking on a thin smile. "I think the rest of us should go down to the house while there's still food on the tables. The fiddler is already getting warmed up. Clark, make sure to stop by and pick up your own plate. Perhaps something for our guest?"

A smile unfolded in segments, it still didn't reach his eyes. "Sure thing, Mrs. Heart."

Sometime later, Scott limped past the corral towards the stable following the foreman, full of beef and Mrs. Heart's greens. He harbored a deep hope that the horse would be incapable of going faster than a walk, anything faster would be debilitating.

Inside the barn, a row of stalls held three horses. Clark shook his head, chuckled under his breath, friendly in the extreme. He'd have to catch one from the corral, tack it out.

Scott waited, walked the perimeter of the barn. Touched a hanging lantern, sent it swinging. He looked out the back door. Five cattle were penned together, cordoned off. Skittish as if something had recently spooked them. He took another circuit and looked out again. The fire pit was blackened; branding irons mixed in with remnants of horns, bloody calf nuts. The brands were wrong, though. Or rather, they were correct on three of the cows: a circle around an enhanced L.

"Oh, now it's too bad you found our beeves, Mr. Lancer." Clark's voice came from behind him.

"My cattle, don't you mean? I could use an explanation."

"The Bar W doesn't need to explain anything."

Scott threw himself to the ground as a gun boomed. Clark's gun roared again and Scott heard the shouts and sounds of people running. He rolled into an open stall, plucked the rifle pegged on the board behind it. Clark scrambled out of the barn.

He got to his feet, heart thudding against his ribcage, and took a few steps towards the door. Swallowing hard, he couldn't begin to speculate how much trouble he'd just fallen into.

"Lancer!" Heart's deep voice yelled out. "Clark said you were sniffing around my cattle. Looking to take a few home with you."

There was a commotion in the cluster of party-goers and Thomas stepped out from the crowd.

"Hold on the two of you. Is what he saying true, Scott?" He cocked his head with all the panache of a lawyer for the defense. "I have to admit, you don't look the rustling type to me."

"You're not from here, Thomas. You're no one to judge."

"And you are, Mr. Heart?"

Scott fingers danced along the split seam of the window sill while the exchange took place, his taptaptap playing out like a drum roll. "I wasn't trying to take any cattle. They're mine to begin with," he corrected himself, "Lancer cattle, anyway. The brands have been changed."

Heart stepped forward. "That's a lie…a dirty lie. There's not much law around here and I'm prepared to deal with men like you on my own terms."

Standing just inside the door, he held the rifle in one hand, the other held out wide, non-threatening, like he was giving a handshake. Idiotic because Heart was less than fifty feet in front of him, big forty-four shotgun in his hands, a pistol strapped to his leg—he wanted to shake hands all right. Or something.

Scott scanned near the house, looked for what he wasn't going to imagine—found it. Mrs. Lathey comforted a sobbing Lizzie against her chest, one hand smoothing the girl's hair. Andrew, standing behind Heart, scorched a stare. Newly arrived Maximilian Diaz and Mouse—remarkably awake—stood beside Adelita, waiting. The jury had assembled while the judge was speaking.

Sunlight blossomed around Thomas, and Scott knew what he was going to do, was going to wade right into the mess without giving it a second thought, because he saw the look on Thomas' face and hoped it wasn't the very same one he had on his own. Rage rammed down the throat of desolate, numbing fear.

Scott drew breath. He knew the rifle in his hands, had been friends with its type since he was fourteen. A birthday present, of sorts. Carter's father had Scott strip it, clean it, put it back together. Clandestine target shooting and friendly competition held behind a wall of clinging roses in the Willoughby's back yard. They hadn't called it a present because it was kept at Carter's house, away from Grandfather's eyes. And it had been a splendid secret to keep.

His aim always had been good, even as a boy. He wasn't going to miss if it came down to it. But he'd not make a move, not with the crowd standing there.

"I'm in no hurry to die." Calm, directed to Heart, his words tried to do what Helen Lathey's hand was doing to Lizzie, but it only seemed to stoke Heart's anger. Scott's view went back to Thomas, at the same time catching movement to his right. The men who had gone around the barn had heard them talk, but it was Heart calling the shots. They'd make no trouble until he gave the orders.

He tried another tack. "You either know what's going on, or have been lead astray. Which is it? I'm guessing not too much goes on around here without you knowing about it."

Mrs. Heart burst out of the crowd. "Are you going to let him talk to you that way, Willem?"

Heart shouldered in front of his wife. "You've got gall, mister."

"A running brand has been applied to those cows. It changed the Lancer L to the Circle Bar W. Lancer happens to be missing exactly five cattle. I should know I'm the one who lost them."

A glint of sheer surprise flashed across Heart's face, his rifle dipped in hesitation. "It's not my fault you can't keep hold of your animals."

A few hands gathered around, keeping their distance. "I want payment for the cows or a free and clear way to drive them off." There'd be trouble if Heart ever gave the word. He tried not to think about that.

"Payment!" Rage flared up in Queenie's round eyes and a bolt of red started around her neck, crawled to the tips of her ears. Something in her shifted to…he didn't know exactly, but the doting wife, the smooth charm fled. She blinked once, nodded.

It changed the mood, that little movement. Told Scott that time was up. He had wrongly bet on the King instead of the Queen.

Cowhands charged in from the back. He wheeled out the front door, slammed it closed and ran. Could think of only one place—to the corral and horses.

Three gunshots in quick succession stopped him. Clark latched onto his right arm. He yanked the gun from Scott's hand and tossed it aside. A second man sprang from the corral gate and grabbed his other arm. Scott wrenched around, launching him to the side rails. His left arm now free, he drove it into Clark's belly. Breath exploded from the man and he folded.

He drew back again but two strong arms caught him from behind. A fierce hit to his cheek from Clark wasn't promising, a blow that probably broke the man's fingers. He hoped it did anyway. In the strangest slow motion, he watched a spray of his own blood color the brown dirt beneath his boots. Beautiful in a way. Like the paint spatters outside Michel's cabin door.

"Not here, Clark." It was Queenie's voice, full of hate and fury. "Out by the big elm. Bring a rope."

The three of them dragged Scott kicking and fighting across the courtyard and hauled him up on a waiting horse.

Queenie looked at him with cat that swallowed the canary triumph: a handy victim, the re-branded cows. All the cards stacked in her favor. She licked her lips. "Take off his head, boys."

His breathing was ragged, horrified. He tried to find Thomas' eyes, but the man looked like a ghostly ancient warrior pulled from the pages of Scott's college history books. As though he'd happily kill something or someone. Not often Scott was scared, a handful of times during the insurrection, a couple in his childhood. But Thomas scared him in a way—there were depths, what Scott perceived the man was capable of.

His sense of what was reliable—all his thoughts, really—were swirling, moving too fast. But it was right there, clear as day. "You," he choked out, "I know you."

Grey pulled a half-smile out from somewhere. "Not as well as you should, but there's still time, Scott." It was quiet, now. Loud because of where they were—the ranch hands jeering, Lizzie screaming above her mother's cries—but quiet with him and Thomas nonetheless.

The coil of hemp tightened, grabbed hold like a living thing.

Thomas nodded, his smile widening. "Have faith. Lancer demands it."

An explosion of gun near his right ear, and the horse jerked out from under him. The rope snapped and snarled, bit into his neck.

 **9.** _ **Scott's Evidence**_

Strange that for all the commotion, as soon as he closed his eyes, everything came to a halt: no noise, no rope, no pain, not even the little voice in his head that always sounded like Grandfather after a few brandies.

He took a huge gulping breath. Then another. Buried himself in the sound of quiet. Until a horse nickered—and he knew it wasn't his.

A sudden pressure on his hip caused him to flinch, then yelp as his head protested. He risked a glance down to figure out what it was, and was surprised to see butterscotch and two big eyes. Lizzie's dog, just passing time, seeing what he could see.

Blinking away the shine of late afternoon sunlight, his hand drifted up, then lay on his chest. He heard the horse again. "Johnny?" he whispered.

"Hey," Johnny said, almost as though he'd sat down to dinner and was starting conversation about the roast beef. "You're awake."

"Where am I?" His eyes flicked to the side and back again. "Where are they?"

Johnny glanced up. "Well, just here…a ways outside of the town," and gestured with his nose to the surrounding forest. "See? No one else around."

A shiver ran over him, though it was warm. Gone, all gone. Only Barranca came into his view, but it coincided with Johnny fingering the back of his head and Scott couldn't talk. By the time he opened his eyes again, his brother had Scott's horse tied beside his own.

"Help me up." He made it as far as a half-sit, collapsed against a tree trunk.

"Looks like you took a mean tumble. Took a while hauling you back up here. Almost thought you didn't want to come back—you wouldn't wake up." Johnny's voice had gone soft and Scott found himself responding to it, felt his vision swim at the _almost_. Finally, though, the ground was a much easier place to look than at the expression on his brother's face.

A dream, maybe. Maybe. But it hadn't felt like one.

Johnny chucked the dog behind the ears. "Who's your friend?"

It went down on its front paws, tail wagging like an out of control metronome with the attention. Pricked by a sound only dog ears could hear, it stood stiff-legged for a moment, then ricocheted into the forest. The last thing Scott saw of him was a grin, all toothy-bright. Johnny pivoted, meant to go after him.

"No! Let him go. That's what caused all this mess in the first place."

Choking out a half laugh, Johnny's eyes followed the invisible dog trail. "That little thing? You're kidding."

"It's not that funny," he muttered, and folded deeper into his slouch.

Johnny's face asked _why_ more eloquently than words. Instead, "I got something that might make your head feel better. You know those missing cows?"

"You found them?"

"Well, no. I found the kid who lost' em, that's why I was late. Some of the boys put Adán up to it."

His eyebrows crooked together. Adán was fifteen years old, a nephew of the blacksmith, and had the benefit of being born out west, but as much practical experience at ranching as Scott did, give or take a few hours.

"He opened the gate and chased the cows out. Thought it would be a fine joke. Never figured on them getting too far. I'll tell Murdoch when we get home, set things straight."

The more he thought about it, the more he and Adán seemed to be kindred souls after a fashion. "Don't talk to Murdoch."

"Why not?"

"What will happen to Adán?"

"I don't know. Other ranches would put him off with his rig, dock his pay."

"So leave him to me then. Adán and I will find the cattle; no one needs to be the wiser about his involvement."

"You mean, Murdoch."

He nodded.

"You don't think he knows already?

Murdoch seemed to know everything, except him and his brother. "He might. But let me handle it."

"Okay, it's your funeral." Johnny bent down to look at something. "You get some new gloves in town?"

Corn silk yellow, they were folded with care.

Scott stared at them for a bit, then looked Johnny in the eyes: he seemed very calm. Steady, in fact, and Scott took a breath, tried to match it.

A little sound escaped him, from the back of his throat. Denial, maybe. Recognition, more likely. He didn't quite feel like finding his feet yet. Ran a hand across his face, his neck.

Johnny looked puzzled, like he did when he came across a new word he'd never heard of before. Took it apart, put it back together, tried it out a few times and stored it away. He was doing the same thing right now, trying to figure out what happened by teasing out what was in front of him.

Scott couldn't help. He didn't know himself.

The only thing he conceded was that his head hurt, his knee ached. All other parts seemed intact, including his neck. Johnny pushed, but didn't shove, and gave up in the end. It was a fairly quiet—and achingly slow—ride home.

He dropped off the family mail in the foyer basket and hobbled towards the stairs. Murdoch's study was open, ledgers lying on the desk, neat and orderly. They'd probably bite if he got too close.

The smooth leather felt decidedly familiar under his fingertips. He flipped open the top book. Its pages were coated with scribbles and scrawls in what he'd come to know as his father's handwriting. Funny what he liked doing, had a knack for in childhood, was an anathema to him now.

Johnny leaned against the doorframe watching him, a cup of coffee in his hand, questions pursing his lips like he was sucking a lemon drop. Scott shook his head and the questions morphed into a suit yourself shrug and he wandered away into the kitchen. The pot slid and scraped off the stove for a second cup.

Sitting, he pulled the first ledger into his hands.

A half-hour later, he leaned forward, and ran his finger down a particularly long column of figures. Tried to blink away the speckled dots clouding his vision like so many dandelion seeds, turning three's into eight's and seven's into nine's.

The hallway clock chimed out the hour and he closed his eyes for a moment. Then opened them a second later when he heard footsteps.

A pair of boots, Murdoch-sized and flecked with black Lancer soil, came into his limited view. "Scott?"

"Oh, hello. Have a busy day?"

"Somewhat." He nodded. "Go ahead, finish what you were doing."

Murdoch's expression changed, subtle as a cloud's shadow moving across the ground, brows drawn together, opened his mouth to say something else, but then just watched as Scott struggled to read the numbers. Cocked his head to one side, that half-smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"What did you do today?" He walked from the doorway, stopped just shy of the desk.

Shit. Johnny. He tried a grin, almost made it. "Rode to town, got the mail. It's in the foyer, if you're looking for it."

"Just got the mail. And then you thought you'd sit down, look over Lancer finances." Murdoch edged closer. "What happened to you?" Their eyes met, and Murdoch's face froze before something else moved in. For one second, one brief moment that Scott was absolutely sure of, he saw it. Silence followed, him trying to sort it out, because this was new and different and not a little uncomfortable.

"Did…"

"I don't need anyone to tell me what I can see for myself."

Scott looked down and saw the smears of dirt across the pocket and chest, a hole in the elbow, a torn cuff. Took a deep breath, felt the muscles in his legs protest when he stood upright. "I took a fall, but I'm fine," he said, shuffling a small step around Murdoch.

Who touched his shoulder, stopping him in his tracks. "That accounting business the other day, it—"

His father paused and Scott knew what was coming. He splayed out his hands, stepped back. "Was colorful? Lengthy? Necessary?"

Murdoch pulled up like a horse at the gate. The deep line between his brows dug deeper and a gleam came into his eyes. He shook his head. "I made a mistake somewhere and can't find it. Johnny hasn't had much experience."

A father with orders, but not so black and white after all.

They looked at each other long and hard, Scott gave a half smile of his own, shrugged a little. "It's in column three, on the second page. You forgot to carry the five."

~o~O~o~

The portico was as a good a place as any, and Murdoch was tied up with God knows what in the house. Scott straightened his legs and leaned back in the oaken rocking chair, felt the heat radiate along his back. So very good, it was like the chair caressed him. And if he was thinking that about a chair, then he needed to find some female company. Soon. Red hair the color of sunset came to mind, left him smiling.

He might have closed his eyes. The constant clip-clop of horse hooves from the corral sounded like they were far away, a beat of iron against the anvil near the barn was the same—getting farther away every minute.

"Scott?" His father's voice and a rustle of paper cut into his thoughts like persistent mosquitoes. "Son?" He'd fallen asleep, mouth hung open like an old man. He blinked a couple of times, reminded himself to not make a habit of nodding off in the middle of the day, and slowly sat up.

His father was right there, arm hovering at Scott's side, ready to help. Scott looked at it pointedly, and Murdoch dropped it with a tight smile.

He stretched like a cat in the sun. "Are we ready to go?"

Murdoch laughed. "We are unless you need some more rest."

Scott pretended to be hurt. "You don't take a nap every once in a while?"

He slid out of the rocker, assessed his father. Relaxed, he decided.

Murdoch read something in his papers, then looked up. "So, where do you think the best location would be for the crew to start the fencing?"

Scott didn't know what to say. He'd never been asked before. "What?" he blurted out. Like his father had just spoken in Latin.

Murdoch seemed amused, deep creases appeared to either side of his mouth. "Well, you'll recover those five cows in time." He spread his hands. "And we obviously need a better way to keep them penned in."

Joking, tenuous humor. Scott crossed his arms, didn't know if he should risk it. Didn't know if he could afford not to. "I want to try digging that well."

He stopped there. He had all sorts of arguments lined up: the preliminary survey showed an underground pool, according to Johnny the so-called dry season was coming up, it would shave time off the day by having the cattle closer to a ready water source. But Scott didn't use any of those persuasions to tip the scales. Either his father was serious about this partnership, or he wasn't.

Murdoch's face was a study of blankness, but then he nodded like he'd known this was what Scott would say.

"All right, but…"

Scott made a low noise in his throat. "I know. I find the cattle first, then repairs on the barn roof."

"What I was going to say, is that we need to take Johnny along with us the next time, so he can help survey again before we begin. All of us…begin."

Couldn't read his face, but there in his voice, Scott heard everything his father had been holding back for a couple of months now. It was new, and therefore frightening, this level of longing.

It hurt, to realize that. Murdoch had made his decisions, then and now. Making them was one thing; living with them another. So Scott stole glances at him as he folded and refolded the survey papers, finally shoving them into his back pocket, pensive, lost in thought.

At last, Murdoch seemed to give himself a shake. "Come on; let's catch up with Johnny and Cipriano."

They went east then north. Scott mentioned the well, this time in passing, and his father had gone along with it. It wouldn't last forever, this letting him call the tune, but Scott would take it as long as it was being given out. He reined his horse, stretched his neck in a satisfying crick that Johnny found irritating, not seeing anything except grass and poplars.

His head felt fine. A long couple of days spent in the house going over ledgers in between bouts of fitful sleep, and he hardly knew he'd been injured in the first place. He had fallen—nearly breaking his neck—but the reality was, he'd fallen in more ways than one. He often wondered about seeing the mercantile dog in the bushes, mostly he thought about Thomas, especially when he wore the yellow gloves.

Scott didn't want to dismiss what he'd seen, but he didn't want to wallow in it, either. The whole adventure had disturbed him to the point where he pushed it to the edge of his mind, not forgotten, it just wasn't constantly in the forefront. A sort of détente, and in this instance, being ensconced firmly in the middle was not a bad place to be.

Murdoch sighed. "Even though the survey found water underground, bringing it up will be an undertaking. It won't be a picnic at the fair."

Shading his eyes, Scott stared at the open meadow with the same grin he'd given Belinda at the bottom of the hill. Behind him, he could feel his father's eyes on his back, light as a warm hand. In front, nothing but green. And work. Lots of work.

Murdoch was wrong; digging the new well would be splendid.

~o~O~o~

 _California, April 28, 1871_

 _Dear Carter, The book was received at a most opportune time. I had been wrestling with my prior skepticism regarding the journey west and have come to a momentous decision. I'm going to stay at Lancer. Indeed, if nothing more than to learn about chasing pigs or following white rabbits. Gleeful as it might be, I ask that you don't tell my grandfather, as I want to deliver the news myself in letter. I'm positive you will hear him bellow to the Commons. You may think this a wild effusion, and one strangely at variance with my former callousness on the score of the California pater familias, but I have recently undergone a change of heart, or shall I say my faith has been found. If you have no particular engagements coming in the fall, I would request a visit from you to this 'wonder land', so you can see for yourself. Kind regards,_

 _Scott Lancer_

The End

Original: 6/11/2012

Revised: 8/14/2013


	40. Giving Over

**No warnings, except a few words here and there. An early Lancer short and the last of my old ones (I think).

"The waiting is the hardest part  
Every day you see one more card  
You take it on faith, you take it to the heart  
The waiting is the hardest part"

 _The Waiting_ by Tom Petty

Giving Over

It piqued his curiosity, that small bit of paper. He'd turned it over and over in his hand. A talisman, whose dog-eared edges kept him company across a thousand miles of open land, "The Pinkerton Agency" written in a bold scrawl across the top, "We Never Sleep" it haughtily proclaimed. He still had that card, now firmly ensconced in his bedside drawer.

Scott's first acquaintance with the west had been from the window of a train, but long before the snow-covered Rockies and that bone-jarring stagecoach ride into Morro Coyo, his sense of adventure had stirred. Would his father even recognize him? Father? He stifled a laugh even now at his optimism.

Apparently, his father never saw him unless he bumped right into him. And rightly so, with his brother- _his brother_ -still recovering from a bullet wound. So he went at Cipriano like a green recruit intent on his first battle. And while patient and kind enough, the Segundo rarely discoursed on any ranching lore. Still, he was perceptive enough to know Cipriano kept an eye on him, and that gave him a small measure of comfort.

He returned to the hacienda one afternoon from a disastrous attempt to dislodge a well and goodly jammed stream, when a cowhand approached him with a message.

"The boss wants you to meet the boys at the bunkhouse."

He shook his head-arms, legs and guts again. Day Pardee, although quite dead, was still making his presence known at the ranch. The outlaw had butchered a few cattle while scattering the rest to the hills, and Murdoch had tasked him with rounding up the errant cows together. Ordinarily, he would have chosen his own men, but he was at a disadvantage here. He let them wait until he took care of his horse, then hobbled around to the house.

The cowboys were haphazardly arranged around the building. Some leaning or sitting, others standing with legs braced far apart. He knew a few from the time they rode together after Pardee. They all looked similar to him-lithe of form, thin hips and bow-legged. But coming closer, he amended that thought-they looked nothing alike. Except, perhaps, their expressions. As a one, they were a sullen, closed off bunch.

He would wager if he turned around and looked to the house, he'd see Murdoch laughing behind the curtain in his study.

"So you're the Lancer outfit," he said bluntly.

Most greeted him with a word or nod of the head.

"Let's get an understanding here, I haven't been out here long and I'm probably the last man to tackle this job. But my father has seen to it I should. He wants to give me one third of this ranch…I won't have it unless I deserve it. And that means making a go at ranching, from the bottom up."

Their expressions didn't change, for the most part they were still and blank. He couldn't tell what they thought, but they certainly weren't impressed.

"You have the rest of the day off. Be ready to go early tomorrow morning." Before limping away, he surmised his first order had been received with something akin to surprise-and welcome. Most of the men had whooped and hollered then thundered towards the corral in search of mounts.

He went in search of his new brother.

He found him just as he'd left him yesterday, lying flat on his back in bed, fighting off the last vestiges of fever.

Johnny greeted him soundly. "You look dragged out."

"I'm fine."

"You and I need to play poker sometime, you can't lie worth shit."

Scott shrugged and pointed towards the bed. "Then let me have one of those pillows to sit on." He took the flat pillow his brother offered and looked at the hard-backed chair beside the bed. "On second thought, maybe I'll just stand." Leaning against the wall beside the window, he casually lifted up the curtain and looked outside. "Son of a bitch…"

"I didn't think you knew any words like that, Scott."

"Oh, I know plenty. I'm just careful where I say them."

"What's going on out there?" asked Johnny.

"Can you get up?"

His brother gave him a quick look of disdain and dangled one leg over the side of the bed, then looked quickly to the closed door before swinging the other out.

Scott's eyebrow went up. "Nice nightgown, brother."

"It oughta be, ain't it yours?" Johnny asked, lifting heavily off the bed.

"Good try, but no."

"Wasn't my idea," Johnny grumbled back, "but with Teresa runnin' in and out, Murdoch said it was for the best. I wonder who he lifted it from." He shuffled to the window and peered out. "What am I looking for?"

"That idiot, right there by the corral. His name is Houston. Watch what happens when he goes up to the sorrel. I've told him twice now you can't approach her from the left, she's blind in that eye."

They both watched the skittish mare flare up and swing her head around, effectively cold-cocking the unfortunate cowboy.

Johnny winced and gave a low whistle.

"I may not have sat in a saddle any longer than it takes to get from Beacon Street to Boston Commons these last few years, but I do know horses."

Scott pointed to his left. "And see that man coming around the side of the barn? His name is Walt. He's a slick cowboy, but more than that, if anyone's in trouble they call on him. He's the peacemaker of the outfit."

Johnny looked thoughtful. "Why are you telling me this?"

"Have you done much ranching work?"

"Here and there. Maybe a little on the side when things were tight." Johnny shrugged and a hand waved vaguely in the air. "A long time ago."

Scott drew himself up to his full height. "Me either," he hesitated, "so I figure we're the odd men out here, regardless of Murdoch being our father. You tell me about him and I'll tell you about the ranch until you're on your feet. Who's who, that type of thing. Deal?"

Johnny stole another quick look out the window and stuck out his hand. "Deal." Sweat popped out on his forehead and he wavered a bit.

"You know, you don't look so good…"

Heavy footsteps thudded down the hallway. Two heads swiveled towards the door.

"Sounds like the old man. Heard enough of those boot heels the last few days."

The door swung open and Murdoch's voice boomed out. "Scott! I didn't hear you come in." A fraction of a second later, he turned to Johnny. "What are you doing out of bed?"

His brother was hustled back to bed, complaining, and the covers pulled up. Murdoch turned his sights back to him.

His eyes were full of questions and-concern? Murdoch was a big man in a small room. He moved to the side just as his father was raising a hand to touch his shoulder. It wavered, missing substance, then dropped back down.

He smiled a bit, trying to fend off the awkwardness of the moment. "I wanted to see how Johnny was doing, Sir. But I need to get going and gather my gear. We're leaving in the morning. Besides, I believe there's a small matter at the corral that needs my attention."

Johnny propped up on one elbow. "Leaving?"

"It seems we have some lost cattle to find." He nodded to his brother and closed the door, feeling Murdoch's eyes boring into him as he left the room.

It all started out smoothly enough. Murdoch had even come out to seen them off, in a fashion, standing silent on the portico with Cipriano. The area they ventured into was increasingly rugged. It was a part of Lancer he'd never seen before, a wild, unbroken land full of canyons and crags. By sundown, they were far away from the main house and just making camp.

It was from here each day they would ride out and herd whatever cattle they could find back again. After the first day had ended, a few new blisters and a sore shoulder had been added to his repertoire of complaints.

He'd been determined to keep an accurate accounting of the bruises, bumps and sprains he received, but eventually gave up due to the list's enormity. Moreover, he hadn't been this saddle sore since his years spent day after day in the confines of a McClellan saddle. There weren't too many nights in those early days of the rebellion he didn't groan into his cot. Just like now.

It was this part he hated-the waiting-the time between being new and competent. He'd never been any good at it, either at Harvard or in the cavalry. His quartermaster once told him he just had to give over, that it took a couple of years to produce a seasoned trooper, but it would come eventually. Well, he'd made it, barely.

But would he make it here? That was the question.

~End~

11/08


	41. Letters From Home

**No warnings. And I think this is truly the last of my old Lancer pieces ;-).

Letters from Home

 _He'd been forbidden to play in the grand study with the big mahogany desk. Grandfather had told him there were things in there not meant for little boys. But sometimes, when no one was looking, he liked to do forbidden things. And that's where he found the packet of letters, at the bottom of the drawer, tied with a plain string, addressed in a bold scrawl not to Grandfather but to him, Scott Lancer. There were fifteen in all, almost two for each year he'd been alive._

 _They were from him. His real father._

 _It was dark where he crouched, quiet as a larder mouse, but the rain drops found him anyway and made his coat and hair damp. From behind the wooden barrels he listened. Made a picture in his mind from the sounds he heard. Men—a lot of them—with rough, loud voices full of the sea, their shoes squeaking on wet boards. Sailors, he guessed. In the distance, ship's horns and grey gulls cawed through the low hanging dark clouds. He'd been waiting a long time to sneak aboard. The ship was headed west, all the way to California, he'd made sure of that by asking a porter._

 _He listened for the bloated whistle, signaling anchors up. He wondered in a vague, unconcerned way where Grandfather was and what he was doing this evening at home._

 _A real mouse poked its head out of a hole in the barrel slat, grain crumbs covering its fine whiskers. Scott grinned and Grandfather, the old house on Travail Street with the picture of the fine lady—he'd been told she was his mother—the soft rain and the fifteen letters fled his mind. He held out his finger, tried to touch its mousy nose. Then laughed at the way it skittered and slid up to the barrel rim._

 _A lurch and the huge boat groaned from deep within its belly. The horn bellowed once, and he found himself holding his breath, palms flat beside him. The boat reminded him of a giant whale, like Moby Dick in the story Grandfather read to him at night. Thinking of it made him a little sad, would his real father know about books and such? Would he be like Grandfather?_

" _Aha!" A voice said by his ear. "Found you!" The barrel was heaved aside and Scott looked up. It was the porter. Angry bubbles of saliva burst in the corners of his mouth. He stepped forward, then stopped, a cruel tic trembling his lips. "You. Get up."_

 _Not waiting for an answer, the man gripped Scott hard above the elbow, hauling him to his feet. His right leg had gone to sleep and buckled with pins and needles. He was pulled up higher so his toes barely touched the ground._

" _Thinking about stowing away, eh?"_

 _Scott was silent. He'd never seen a man like this before. It angered the porter and he was shaken by the arm until his head rang. Rain drops flew from his coat and hair._

" _Them's that ride, have to pay." Another shake and Scott's teeth rattled together._

 _"Unhand the boy!"_

 _There was a scuffle and the strong hand around his arm was wrenched away. It gave Scott pause to see his grandfather. The blue eyes that always looked like they had glints of steel in them were hooded. There was anger there, yes, but there was something else, too. Sometime later, it occurred to him that Grandfather didn't even have his coat on._

 _But that feeling, of one thing moving fast and the other very, very slow combined with the pain in his arm, was enough to make Scott want to throw up._

 _He met Grandfather's eyes, saw the relief there. He didn't need to see anything else._

Scott pushed the memory away like an empty supper plate. An odd out-of-place chuckle burbled up: Murdoch and his grandfather were nothing alike. Riding on that bit of thought, the ache in his head made him gasp out loud.

Five feet. Five long feet. Somehow, his pistol had bounced out of his holster. It was bogged down in sucking mud. Even if he could reach it, it was no good.

With one eye open, he could see the horse lying on its side. A sassy paint unaccustomed to lightning, or much else for that matter. His other eye wasn't working, it felt full and heavy in the socket.

It was too warm, despite the leftover wind from the storm. Hot. His leg was much like his left eye, sluggish. Pain was somewhere swimming above him, present but prickling outside his immediate concern. Which was the river. Swollen with rainwater and lapping at his right boot. The one he couldn't—didn't—want to move.

The wind picked up, pushing the stars across the sky, bumping them into the big moon. Should it be this hot after all that rain? Black on white, shadows pulled at the corners of rocks and trees. The smell of wet and decay. Hot.

A squelch of grass, then a boot that belonged to someone was just out of his range of vision. He probably should look up, but that would involve moving his left eye, maybe the leg, too. It wore him out just thinking about it. He couldn't move, and he couldn't breathe. All that was holding him together was a sense of home and the idea of pain.

Drops of water from the wrecked tree branch above him landed on the part of his face turned to the sky, like cold kisses. Nice. The rasping of a harsh voice breathed over him.

He sensed pain coming. Grandfather headed towards him, without a coat and his tie askew. Wasn't quite here yet, but he looked steadily at Scott, eyes rounded and white with worry.

Yes. Here he was.

~o~O~o~

Well, Murdoch thought. That's a first.

His son had willingly taken pain medication. Scott was so doped he was seeing sailing ships. At least he'd asked about them the last time he'd said anything. Murdoch laid his pencil on the small table and rested the ledger he'd been making a mess of for the last hour face down on his bent knee.

The room had twenty-seven planks in the ceiling, forty-two tiles on the floor, and exactly three pictures. Two were of the boat variety. Murdoch had answered all the questions Scott had when his son was awake, including one about childhood letters, and had counted ceiling planks and floor tiles when he was not.

Scott's roughened hand came up for a moment, then fell to the cotton blanket. Murdoch leaned forward, set a warm hand on his son's forearm, testing to see how awake he was. Immediately, Scott turned his head, met Murdoch's stare with one good eye, one filled with blood. The bruises to that side of his face were spectacular.

"How are the sailing ships?" Murdoch asked.

"What?" Quietly, like he didn't want to be heard. He licked his cracked lips, took a few shallow breaths. "What happened to the mare?"

Murdoch nodded to steady himself, had some idea how badly Scott might take it. "The lightning was almost a direct hit." Not really answering.

Scott swore softly. A strange noise came from him, a queasy almost-whimper as he moved the wrong way, and came face to face with the fact he had a broken leg. He looked away. "She would have made a good cattle horse."

"No matter," Murdoch said, after a minute of staring at the back of Scott's head. "I'm just glad I found you. It wasn't easy with the storm."

Scott looked back, startled. But there was something else, his eyes weren't right. "You sent letters."

"I can write you know." With a soft laugh and deflection, because Scott needed it.

Needed it, but wouldn't take it. "Fifteen of them."

Murdoch was quiet, didn't ask how Scott felt or if he needed anything—he'd just been swatted away. By memories. Besides, his son was drifting in and out of coherent thought.

"Grandfather," he thought he heard Scott whisper. His eyes were shut, the medication taking full effect.

"Son?" Murdoch asked, bending over him, smelling the faint whiff of river and blood. His nose wrinkled. Scott's eyes remained closed, but he was frowning.

"You both came."

And that, apparently, was that. After a few minutes of watching him sleep, which Murdoch had done for far too many hours since the boy had arrived to the ranch, he flipped the ledger over and picked up his pencil. But he wasn't seeing the scratchy figures aligned just so in each column. He was downstairs at the big desk—hair impossibly dark, the backs of his hands so smooth—on an early April morning that had sunlight streaming in through the window. He was hunched over a letter, addressing it Care of Boston.

The End

9/2/2014


	42. Inside Information

**No warnings. This is a fanciful short piece submitted for a challenge at Lancer Writers.

Inside Information

The dirt road is quiet save for the black and white scruff of a dog barking at nothing. Wagon traffic and the feverish pitch of emigrants hasn't picked up through the quadrangle of adobe yet, but the bit of red cloth at the window is tacked up and startling sunlight let in anyway. Salty ocean air hurries in, replacing the stale.

The floor sweeper makes a cursory pass around her scrolled feet with his broom and rag, not bothering to flush out the measure of dust caught within fine curlicue lines. She sits in the window of Gaspar de Guzmán's small shop under a thatched roof, her once bright finish fading to a dull brown.

There have been few prospects. It's been over two months since anyone touched her. The last was an old man with tobacco spittle in his grey beard whose gnarled hands poked and prodded down the length of her California laurel inlay.

"She's true," de Guzmán told the man, eager for the brag and the pesos. "Made with only fine native woods. It would be handsome in any house."

The man ruffled his fingers through his beard in thought. "Handsome is as handsome does. Same goes for the price. The sign says seventy-five American dollars, that's too rich for my blood."

"Señor, the carpenter is an artist."

The old man tipped back his head, let loose a peal of laughter. He never came back.

Rumors of war shake Yerba Buena, people skitter from one place to another, talking behind their hands in quiet whisper. They need a gun, bullets, and a place to throw down their bedrolls. Not a handcrafted table of fine wood.

Legs of strong walnut chipped and swirled into patterns of leaves and vines. The lighter colored laurel crisscrossing the dark on each side panel under the delicate top. Forty pounds of artistic flair in a village populated by ganaderos, marineros and cantinas.

A woman stops, cocks her head prettily, and places a hand at her temple to smooth back wisps of golden hair. Her other hand pats the dust away from a black skirt and tugs down the flowered shirtwaist. She doesn't belong here. Yet a smile breaks that reaches her blue eyes. The tall man across the street calls to her, singing out in a loud rough burr. Her forehead crinkles in the moment and she walks away to meet him.

Just as well. There's nothing genteel about his sort.

She hears boot heels thudding across the floor. De Guzmán greets in Spanish, but is answered back in English, tinged with the same Scottish brogue as before.

"How much for the table?"

De Guzmán stutters, flailing for a proper response since it's been so long. "Sixty American dollars."

"Too much."

The woman's voice, strong and proper with an accent all its own, fills the room. "Please, Murdoch."

"Darling, we have no place for it on the wagon."

"We'll find room for this."

The tall man sighs, knowing he lost before he really began, and makes a ridiculously low bid. "Twenty-five, in gold."

Rubbing his hands together, the store owner readies himself for the haggling. With the senora on his side, the sale should go smoothly.

They settle on thirty-seven, which de Guzmán pinches out to the scales, and Murdoch cracks a smile at his happy woman.

~o~o~o~

She looks out of place against the old adobe wall of the hacienda, just like its Anglo occupants. The staircase is in shambles, the kitchen roof in need of repair, but the woman slides her hand into his large one and everything is all right.

What the husband and the house lack in class and grace, the wife—Catherine—makes up for with a deft hand and pretty tatted things made of lace. Taking a deep breath of warm spring air, she stares out the kitchen widow, then pulls back to watch the shadows of evening twilight lengthen along the window pane, fingers twitching on the sill. Lighter still, her fingers dance across the checks of the pinafore apron spanning her belly. She steps to the right, another to the left, actions mimicking the gentle sway of the curtain slapping against the sill.

She alights by the lantern, picks up her shuttle and threads. Soft notes of some faraway song, punctuate each pull of her needle. Murdoch will find out what he doesn't know when he returns from the fields tonight.

There'll be a baby to hold come the fall.

Catherine abandons her lace and picks up a piece of ivory paper. Hesitating over the inkwell before dipping the nib, she scratches out the letter and addresses the envelope, care of Boston.

~o~o~o~

Niños run in the courtyard, squealing from the chase of older boys, as music slows. She has been dragged outside as a placemat for the fiddler's elbow when he tires, but more often than not he's found by the punch bowl. Shirtwaist seams let out to accommodate her thickened middle, Catherine waddles to and fro between guests and estancia vaqueros while Murdoch hides his worry behind puffs of tobacco and a plate of roasted beef. The new old man with clean shoes narrows his eyes.

"Bah, sugar dreams don't carry very far, do they Murdoch? Catherine should be among her own kind, not with these foreigners."

He's still speaking when a man in green flannel reins his lathered horse to a jarring stop in front of the fire pit.

"Judd Haney and his boys burned the Rivera barn to the ground, not more than a few hours ago. Been watching a smoke curl from the west, thought it was Lancer."

Catherine goes to Murdoch, stands by his side.

He squeezes her shoulder. "Did they find him?"

"Not yet, I'm spreading the alarm, though." He shot Murdoch a pained look. "People are gettin' scared. Even with Lancer, there's only a few of us not kowtowing to Haney. And now there's one less. Not faulting him, but Rivera caved."

The old man takes out a pressed white handkerchief to cough away dust. "Let the law handle this, Murdoch. You have responsibilities here."

He measures out his words. "These are friends and there is no law here, Harlan."

The handkerchief does little to hide the old man's outrage. "You knowingly brought my daughter into this barren wilderness?"

Catherine turns to him, frowning. "Not now, Father."

Murdoch holds his wife for a long while after Flannel charges off. Men make to leave, pushing their women and crying babies into wagons, yelling to horses.

She gets hauled back inside, shoved against a hallway wall, to stand in the shadows.

Above the sound of crunching wagon wheels and hoof beats, the loud voices of Murdoch and Harlan intermingle with Catherine's protestations. "This is my home!" she tells them.

But it's two against one.

The hacienda is eerily silent after O'Brien takes Harlan and Catherine away and she stands forgotten in the hallway.

A new smell, choking like a thousand tobacco-filled pipes, riddles the air. The door bursts open. Murdoch, his shirt torn and dirty, face and hands blackened, stumbles inside and leans a long stick against the wall. He's halfway to the kitchen when boot heels scrape against portico tile.

"Murdoch!"

O'Brien has returned, but not Catherine or the old man.

"The baby's early…"

He leaves with O'Brien and doesn't come back for three days.

Murdoch staggers inside to the wall, leans on it for support. He bites his lips as his whole body trembles. He makes a fist and brings it down on a moan. She slides, legs thumping across tile, until she crashes into the door frame.

The wide crack that cuts across the California laurel doesn't hurt. Murdoch shoves her out of the way, ignoring the scratches and dent that mar her top.

She understands Catherine will never come home.

~o~o~o~

Murdoch speaks in fluent Spanish now. "Just a bit further, Maria."

And so does the new woman. Her words have a musical accent. "I can't wait any longer, I'm opening my eyes."

When she does, they match her gown of red—sparkling. Her mouth falls open as she looks around the room.

"Beautiful!"

Maria looks like Catherine when she first saw her: joyful, content.

The next day, clucking over the damaged top, Maria orders a man to move her to the back portico. Later that night, Murdoch takes her back to her place between the bookshelf and curtain.

"We bought the table for the house."

"We? You mean you and your other wife."

"No…er, yes. It belongs here."

Maria's face hardens for a moment, then she smiles.

In the morning, a vase of fresh wild roses covers the dent.

~o~o~o~

She is large with child and squirms to find a comfortable spot. Murdoch sits beside her.

"Home. It sounds nice doesn't it? The hacienda is finished and by this time next year, the valley will be green with alfalfa. Soon, we'll all be together." He squeezes her hand. "Are you happy?"

"I didn't come here to be the second wife. Mother to her child. He has his own place and his own family."

Murdoch's brow wrinkles. "Nonsense. Don't talk that way. Everything will change when he gets here. You'll see."

Trembling, she whispers to herself, "It is not nonsense."

~o~o~o~

Maria is upstairs in the bedroom where she and Murdoch sleep. A third man is there, a stranger with a thick black bag. Murdoch comes downstairs to pace in front of the fireplace.

Outside, a hammer meets the anvil with loud twang.

Murdoch drags his fingers through his hair.

Maria's chorus of screams echo, each marked by a sharp reprimand from the stranger. Just as he drops his forehead to the mantle, they stop. He looks up when a different cry tumbles out of the room. The stranger comes down the stairs, two at a time.

"You're supposed to shake my hand, Murdoch. Or should I call you Papa?"

"Maria? Is she…?"

"She's fine after all her caterwauling. It may not have been the easiest of births, but it certainly was the loudest. Now where's my pay?" He nods towards the cabinet. "I'll take a dose of your fine Glenlivet as a deposit."

Murdoch's hand quivers when he reaches for the bottle. The stranger takes it from him and pours his own drink, lifting his glass in salute.

"Here's to your new son."

~o~o~o~

The baby, Johnny, sits in a high-chair built several summers before, bumping his chubby legs against the slats to some melody only he hears. A wooden pony, painted yellow with yarn for a mane, keeps harmony with every whack.

"Juanito! Shush!"

Murdoch scoops him up amid chatters and squeals.

"Why do you want to leave now, when our boy needs you?"

"We've been through this, Maria. I'm going to Boston to bring Scott home."

"You're always away from home."

He juggles Juanito to one hip. "You know the ranch needs work and the trip back east will take money."

"Stay with us." She holds her stomach and his eyes widen.

"Another baby? So soon?"

When her waist doesn't thicken like before, he curses the lost time.

~o~o~o~

A different man sits in the parlor while Murdoch is far away. Until the housekeeper shows disapproval.

Maria grows silent, looking out the window. She has gone on these so-called buggy rides before, but this time she takes Juanito and his yellow pony.

They don't return.

~o~o~o~

Murdoch weaves around his chair, a boot heel catching her scrolled foot. Its intricate curlicue lines are broken, but he doesn't notice. With one hand, he sweeps away the dead flowers, sending the vase crashing to the floor.

He pounds her top with his fists, burying his face in his hands.

He leaves and stays away for a long time.

Returning, he sits in the dark pouring out Glenlivet. Only the stranger with the black bag and the housekeeper visit. No one talks about Maria or Juanito. One day, Murdoch puts down his bottle and takes her and the highchair up the stairs to a small room and covers them both with linen.

~o~o~o~

Years pass. Wrapped in sheeting, light turns dark. Dark turns light. Sometimes she yearns for the soft hands of Catherine, the honeyed tones of Maria, the sheer joy of Juanito and his pony.

One day, neighing horses pound the courtyard. Booms follow high pitched yells. A new name is shouted: Pardee!

~o~o~o~

The young lady, Teresa, uncovers and moves her to meet the sun again. Almost as hot as it was in the corner of de Guzmán's shop. A finely made lace thing is found and shaken to get rid of cobwebs and dust, then laid over her weathered dent. Lilacs go into a new vase.

Murdoch hitches into the room and she realizes he has changed in the time since he went missing. The hair turned grey, the face wrinkled and leathery. Only his eyes remain the same: a stormy blue. Startled to see her against the wall, he stops and closes them while his fingertips skirt the vase to find the damage under the lace.

With each thrust of cane tip, his left boot heel scrapes the tile floor. Flopping into a chair, he searches for a piece of ivory paper and nibbles his thumbnail over the inkwell.

Taking a deep breath, he begins.

~o~o~o~

Murdoch's desk drawer squeaks every time he pulls it open. On the third go-round he takes out the two pictures and holds them up to the light.

A brisk knock sounds on the office door.

He fumbles the pictures back into their space, assembles his face into a deep frown. "It's open."

Two men walk inside. Their solemn expressions don't give much away. She has heard of trouble coming to Lancer—land pirates—and these men look capable. There's something more familiar about them, though.

Fancy Suit hides his anger under a veneer of ruffles. She's seen his face before, and when he speaks, his deep voice carries the same notes as Catherine.

Leather sings when he walks, the melody stopping abruptly when he leans against her. Younger than the other, yet prickly just the same. He doesn't have his yellow pony anymore.

Murdoch sees, too.

He looks to Juanito: "You have your mother's temper." The boy stares back and takes off his hat.

Then turns to the other: "You have your mother's eyes." This boy is nonplussed and his head tilts back a bit.

Do they know he looked for them? Do they care?

Topped with fuzzy lace, her lines marred with cracks and chips, relegated to being a leaning post for the moment—she wouldn't have it any other way. She'll miss Catherine and Maria, but parts of them are in this very room.

These two men belong here.

And Murdoch? He's finally home, too.

The End

6/3/13

A/N: Yerba Buena was the original name of San Francisco until the Mexican American War ended with the 1848 Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo, when California became a territory of the United States. Playing loose with the dates, I figured C and M would have taken a long boat ride to get to California around 1844 or so.


	43. En Plein Aire

**No warnings. This story came about as a result of a hiking trip down the Grand Canyon. There were several 'Plein Aire' artists who had set up their canvases alongside the trail to draw and paint. Here it has a slightly different meaning ;-).

En Plein Aire (In Plain Air)

She approached from the north, saw the sign when she was still a good distance away. How could she have missed it? "Lancer, 5 miles," she read softly, like she had children's stories when her nephew was still a baby. In the middle of the road were clusters of short-legged red cows with white faces. Herefords, if she recalled correctly. Chunky little fellows. She tapped her toe against the plates, firmly held by twine and plywood frames, and found herself looking at the horizon, mentally adjusting her schedule to compensate for the light she would lose. She tightened her grip on the reins and slapped Gert into a walk.

Pulling the telegram from under her thigh where it was anchored against the breeze, she folded it and tucked it back inside her shirtwaist pocket. Her fingers were darkly stained and calloused, had been for many years now. Braided hair was threaded with silver as if the solutions she used had seeped from her fingertips into her blood, slowly painting her head with shimmering strands of color among the brown. An old woman, driving an older horse in an ancient war wagon bought from Brady himself, she garnered more than a few looks.

But she didn't notice the attention paid to her by city folk or, as it so happened, by the funny-looking cows in the field.

It was May and spring had nudged winter across the valley and out to sea. Her eyes were busy squinting then opening wider, much like the apertures on the lenses she carried in her wagon, filtering the afternoon sun. A quarter acre or so of scorched earth was juxtaposed with grass seedlings pushing their way through burnt soil. Artistic vision stimulated her mind, and she searched for a way to capture the uncommon green with her cameras.

At last she looked back to the road.

A young man approached: tall in the saddle, less than half her age with sharp, angular features. A neckerchief of dark red waved gaily from his neck—the only note of whimsy on his dusty countenance and form.

"So," the man said, although he wasn't looking at her, she could hear the smile in his voice. "Are you lost?"

The eastern ring to his words puzzled her only briefly and she was, once again, aware that time was slipping away. Her jaw clenched and she took out the telegram, shook it in the air. "I'm expected, Murdoch Lancer has inquired about my services."

His lips hadn't moved, but he made a strangled sound all the same. Then, "Are you _Mrs_. Wilkins?"

"It's Miss Wilkins."

He tipped his hat back to reveal a sweat stained face and hair of summer wheat poking out at jaunty angles. "We were expecting a gentleman by the name of Ted Wilkins."

"I _am_ Ted Wilkins. Theodosia Wilkins, actually. Professionally, I'm known as Ted. And if I was a gentleman, I would be the only one here." She emphasized her last sentence, revealing her own eastern accent that only showed itself when she was excited or irritated. She pulled out her calling card.

He blushed about the tips of his ears as he read. "My apologies Madam, we had no idea you were—are—a woman." Flustered, he pulled at his yellow glove, drawing it snug and tight. "I'm Scott Lancer and I'll escort you to the house." He turned his horse about and started down the road.

He looked subdued, not like a beaten dog, but deep in thought. "Mr. Lancer?" she prompted, and he jerked a bit. "Is there a problem with my gender?"

"No. Although I will admit to wondering what my father is going to say." His shoulders fell forward. "I'm not sure if he'll be, shall we say, _open_ to such things."

"You're not sure?"

"The situation has never come up. I've known him a grand total of two months, Miss Wilkins. I'm hardly one to judge."

They passed by a large white arch, the ranch house looming in the distance before they spoke again. "From Boston, are you?"

His head dipped and a smile curved. "What gave it away? My sunburn or my witty repartee?"

"None of that, Mr. Lancer. It's your voice; the sound is not one I equivocate with California."

"That makes two of us." He turned in the saddle, gave more than a sidling glance. "And you as well?"

"I studied in Boston with Albert Southworth at his studio in Scollay Square."

"The daguerreotypist?"

She nodded. "I use other techniques now, but the principles remain the same. You're familiar with his work?"

"My grandfather commissioned a portrait of my mother, back in the forties, I believe, before she moved with my father to California. He treasured it. However, the portrait didn't have the same hold on me." He shook his head. "People remember things in different ways, despite evidence to the contrary. Don't we hold on to what we want from the past?"

The silence was lengthy and she wondered if he had drifted off, but then she heard a squeak of leather and glanced over to see him shift in his seat. "Forgive me. The sun has addled my brain."

He had said his piece, then shut all the doors. Loss and happiness were so keenly intertwined that she couldn't look his way anymore, had to focus instead on the bob of Gert's shaggy head. She had heard it in his voice, the deep weariness. Cornered. Not giving up, but close to it.

They rode apart, him leading, she following, the rest of the way to the house.

Murdoch Lancer turned out to be an uncommonly tall man. She could see where her escort got his height, his lanky build. It took the father a few minutes to collect himself, she watched him do it, watched him swallow surprise and ready himself to be nice to the eccentric old lady.

It was evident he had seen his share of western life, and some of the intervening years were unkind. The lines in his face told an eloquent battle with the hardship, yet good times showed there as well. Scott gave him her card and Murdoch's eyes narrowed and swept over her, after reading. Hesitant acceptance. He called through the doorway and another man soon appeared. With black hair falling across his forehead, this one was as colorful as Scott was muted. The circumstances of her arrival were once again revealed, and he looked at her with a ready grin and devilish eyes, laughing at the joke.

Scott introduced him as his brother, Johnny. But there was no visible familial link. Curiouser and curiouser. Indeed, she felt a bit like she had fallen down the rabbit's hole since treading over Lancer property lines.

She removed her hat and jacket, placed them on the wagon seat. Dusk would come soon enough. She turned and eyed them. "I'll need help with my equipment. I'm losing the light for my work and I have several items that need unloading."

Pausing, she glanced quickly at her surroundings then listened for the next couple of minutes as Scott—who seemed so brittle a few minutes ago—explained in halting yet animated Spanish to a vaquero about the wagon. He stopped, searched for a word and found it, much to the delight of the broad-faced cowboy. Scott laughed low in his throat, hard and soft all at the same time. A master of opposites, it seemed.

A bump at her elbow, and Johnny picked up the plates from under the box seat. She kept her silence as he absently watched his brother stride towards the barn. "He doesn't get it. Not at all," and she didn't know if Johnny was talking about the vaquero, the language or Scott himself.

"What doesn't he get?" She asked finally, taking the plates from him and unwinding the twine that held them together.

"He's pickin' up things real fast. Just needs a little time." Johnny glanced at her, who nodded in encouragement. "My brother is a hard man to figure out, Miss Wilkins."

"Do you want to figure him out?"

"Well, I'm right here," he said softly to the space between his hands. "I'm not goin' anywhere."

Scott arrived with an entourage of eager cow hands; even a smithy was rounded up—a veritable army of strong backs for her trunks and bottles.

She'd fallen behind Johnny and Scott on their way to ready themselves for the sitting. Murdoch stepped forward and joined her as the boys went inside. He had a young woman with him, his arm around her shoulders. "Miss Wilkins, this is Teresa O'Brien, my ward. Is there something else you need before we get started?"

Finally, someone she could see eye to eye without craning her neck. She inclined her head and smiled, "Miss O'Brien." Addressing Murdoch, "I'll need an assemblage of rooms, with easy access to water."

"What about the hacienda? We can carry water wherever you need it," Teresa said.

An option, but not one she cared to use. The cleared out wagon would serve in a pinch. She surveyed the courtyard. "That windowless building there. What is it?"

Teresa raised her eyebrows in a look to Murdoch. "The old guardhouse?"

There looked to be working well beside it. A bonus, at least they wouldn't have to haul the water so far. "Can the inhabitants be removed for the time being?"

Lifting a shoulder, Murdoch shrugged. "We have no one in there at the present."

"So much the better. I shall use your jail for my darkroom then."

She gestured behind her. "Come along, men." She felt a bit like General Grant leading the troops. Albert had told her often enough in the beginning she should have been born a man, but that argument died after seeing her first portraits and stereographs. Her art spoke for itself, being male had nothing to do with capability. And so he encouraged her to go west, after his own foray in the gold mining fields of California. She had never looked back.

The building smelled of rot and cool, of burnt coffee and old things. She supervised the placement of trunks, saw a long table pushed against the wall, then dismissed the helpers and began the lengthy process of unpacking.

Murdoch lit the hanging lanterns and loitered about her tripod and lenses.

"This will be quite an experience for us. From the recommendation I received, I assume you're very good."

In one hand she cradled the colloid. With the other she brushed away dirt and spider webs from the scarred table. "Obviously, the recommendation didn't include all the facts."

He looked chagrined. "Ah, no, it didn't. I should have realized earlier that Aggie's sense of humor played a part."

"May I ask you a question, Mr. Lancer?" He quirked an eyebrow in suspicion, but nodded. "Why did you contract my services?"

He grimaced, pulled a fan of crinkles across his broad cheeks. "Lancer has undergone its share of troubles, recently."

"I saw the land on my way here."

"Yes, that was part of it." After a loaded minute, he sighed. "We need a new beginning, Miss Wilkins. If that's at all possible." Made uneasy by his own admission, Murdoch blinked at her, lashes so dark they shadowed his eyes. "I'd like to do that for my sons."

A father's voice and she understood a little more of what Scott had talked about on the ride to the house. To think about the future, sometimes the past must be forgiven. It would be a start. But could she capture it?

She changed into work smock and apron and followed Murdoch to the house. The great room was larger than the studio at Scollay. Although less sumptuously arrayed, it had intimacy, hominess. She'd taken photographs of wealthy men in the business district of Boston, society ladies dressed in their finery, and a state governor or two, but this was her favorite venue.

With some encouragement, the Lancers came together before the fireplace. The two brothers standing, Murdoch and Teresa sitting. She stopped fussing under the camera shroud, lifted it to the side. With a sigh, she braced both hands on her knees and straightened. Rooted to this one place, Murdoch wanted a new start for his fledging family. A disaster of some sort brought them all here together. God only knew what they were tied with: memories, love, loss, guilt. She adjusted the lens and dove back under the shroud. What would it take for them to stay?

She tapped twice on the tripod leg for good luck and took the photograph. Unearthing from the camera covering, she caught sight of several faces bobbing for a view through the window. Cowboys, no doubt. Or other estancia workers. They would want their own pictures taken and she was more than happy to oblige.

But she had to process what she'd already taken before that could happen.

In the converted darkroom, she unstacked trays for the chemical and water baths and placed them on the table. The developer smelled like apple vinegar with iron thrown in for good measure. The odor sent shivers up her arms in anticipation. Milky iodides were removed and the plate rinsed.

She looked at it with dismay. The fireside portrait was imperfect, but human after all. Murdoch's clenched jaw. Teresa's frank openness at odds with eyes that showed experiences beyond her age. Johnny looked plaintively young, almost vulnerable. And Scott…well, there was something in his face she couldn't quite fathom. It reminded her of sadness.

Her doubts about filling Murdoch's request came back. She had higher hopes for the individual portraits she was about to take. Several glass plates lay near her hand. She chose carefully and prepared them one at a time.

After she finished with the family, Murdoch came into her small space with a knock and scrape of boot over the threshold. He tilted his head a little and pushed around the plates, lingering on the fireside picture. He picked out Johnny's photograph, taken next to the corral, and smiled. It suited the boy, being outside near the horses. Teresa, sitting by a large pot of marigolds, was a spot of sunshine in black and white tones.

Then he found the one of Scott, standing in front of the bookcase. His smile waned.

She felt herself responding to it as her vision swam suddenly, remembering the tone of Scott's voice. Not giving up, but close to it. A thin breath escaped her, "Sometimes the angle of light doesn't let the true picture show through."

They both ignored her statement for the lie that it was. Murdoch set the photograph quietly on the table like he was folding his hand, being faced with a good bluff. She couldn't utter another word, but instead gathered her things to pour more plates for the job ahead.

From her perspective, cowboys liked nothing better than to get in front of the camera with all the accouterments of their trade. So she found herself mired in all manners of men with all manners of guns, ropes, hats and chaps, pushing one another aside, clamoring to have their pictures taken beside the bunkhouse, barn and, inexplicably, the guardhouse.

She waved vaguely towards the next man in line when she turned and found Scott standing near the well.

Really found him. Her trained artist's eye studied the light and shadows. A half-wall, with part of the smooth adobe torn away, revealing rugged, solid stone beneath. Scott had leaned a hip into it, arms loosely folded across his chest. He stared past the crowd of cowboys as though he'd find what he sought inside the house.

His face relaxed into a bemused smile, the lines around his eyes and mouth easing. There he was, open as one of Teresa's yellow marigolds.

Ducking under the black cloth of the camera, she adjusted the height of the tripod. A quarter inch here, a half inch there, until she was satisfied. She looked one more time to engage the perfect frame. Two taps and with a flick of her wrist, she opened the lens to capture the image. He belonged here, to this land, to this family. She wondered when he would realize it.

The End

02/12

Revised: 12/13


	44. Taking Time

**No warnings. Side note: This piece came about from listening to the old Cher song, "Gypsies, Tramps and Thieves". (Lyrics: "Preach a little gospel, sell a couple bottles of Doctor Good")

Taking Time

"My brother broke your watch?"

Johnny looked up at the man on the horse. He was tall, near Scott's height, but he didn't pack much meat on his shoulders or chest. Johnny pegged him to be about twenty-six or –seven. He'd had the pox at one time; scars peppered his cheeks and forehead.

But what drew Johnny's attention was the purplish-red ring floating under the man's left eye. "He give you that, too?"

The cowboy's face darkened.

Johnny's view shifted to his compadre. Not a bad-looking kid. He wore a gun; right side, a Remington, judging by the shape of the handle.

He heard a rustle from the barn and the sound of boot heels. Murdoch stopped short of the loose circle of men and horses. "What's going on here?"

"This man says Scott broke his watch."

"That's right; it was a gold piece. Took it right outta my hand, and stepped on it. Cost me a job, too. "

Murdoch shot Johnny a look and raised his eyebrows. "If that's what happened, and I say 'if'…you can take it up with my son when he returns."

The man in the saddle puffed out his chest. "There's witnesses. Albie, here for one." The kid looked like a jack-rabbit waiting for that first _ping_ so he could jump down the hole to protect his tail.

"Just what do you want?" Murdoch's deep voice drew the man's head around

"My watch money. Twenty dollars all told. It's fair enough compensation."

They were bullies and they found someone—Scott—who wouldn't put up with their shit. Well, Murdoch wouldn't, either.

"Name's Cooper. And I could ask for more...a lot more. I would've made good wages at Petersen's."

"Like I said Mister Cooper, you need to take this up with Scott when he gets back home." Murdoch folded his arms. "After all, we only have your word against his—and I don't know you."

"When will he be getting back?"

Looking like his irritation needed a place to go, Murdoch took a step forward. "I'll tell you what, when my son returns, I'll send him into town to find you."

Albie reached over to tug on Cooper's shirtsleeve. "Come on, let's go."

Cooper's eyes swept around, taking in the hacienda and the corral full of horses, finally fixing them with a glare. "We'll be waiting."

Murdoch turned to face him. "Scott didn't say anything about his trip into town?"

Johnny shook his head.

"Did your brother cause Cooper's eye condition?"

"So the man says."

Murdoch sighed. "There's more to this than a broken watch and a shiner. I'd wager there's a bottle of whiskey hidden somewhere in this story. Those boys look ragged around the edges."

"You know Scott's due in tomorrow morning, right? You gonna send him into town when he gets back?

"I think it might be best to put a little time between Mr. Cooper and Scott. With a little luck, this will all blow over."

Thoughtful, Johnny looked back at the two cowboys now beating it back to town. Nothing against Murdoch, but dealing with them in their own way was sometimes the only thing men like Cooper understood.

~o~o~o~

The sun baked the wet ground until it was steaming. Sweat clinging to his cheeks, Scott took off his hat and wiped his forehead and hatband, then settled it back in place. He urged his horse to an easy canter.

The morning became noon, and noon soon pushed shadows behind him as the day wore on. He watered his horse at a swollen spring and let her crop a patch of green grass. Looking up at the sound of oncoming hoof beats, he grinned at the approaching rider.

"Did Murdoch send you out here to check on my work, Johnny? Or just enjoying the scenery?"

"You're late."

"The washes were running bank full after the rain last night. Did you think I'd taken off for the seven hills of San Francisco to consort with all manners of women, leaving you to do all the work?"

"You're real funny this afternoon. Besides, that's one trip I would've joined you for."

"Somebody would have to supervise, I suppose. What really brought you out all this way?"

"You know anyone by the name of Cooper?"

"Cooper…name doesn't ring a bell. Should it?"

"Rough-looking cowboy. Dirt brown hair, black vest that hasn't seen a clothesline in a while, scarred-up face. Might've been drunk the day you picked up the mail."

"Oh, yes. I didn't recognize the description of the man without a bottle in his hand. He and I met the other day over his whiskey and my fist."

"He sure remembers you."

"I do tend to stick out in a crowd."

"Says you owe him twenty dollars."

Scott reined up his horse. "For what?"

"His watch. He came out to the ranch looking for money. Told us that you broke it and now he wants to be paid."

"As I recall, and I was the sober one, he swung the bottle at my head. I didn't have much _time_ to see where my feet were, let alone worry about a watch."

"Also said you cost him a job."

"Cooper went to jail for shooting holes in Hick's granary sign. The fact he missed his job was his doing, not mine."

"Whatever happened, the man's in a snit and wants his money."

"Must be if he came out to the ranch." Scott crossed his arms on the pommel and leaned forward. "So you, ah, took the time to come all the way out here to tell me that?"

"The scenery _is_ nice out this way."

"You feel like a little fishing before we go back?"

Johnny fingered the handle of his pistol. "I have my pole."

Scott straightened and smiled. "Let's get to it then, Brother."

~o~o~o~

Scott saw it first, the sudden flash of sun on metal. Further up in the hillside, the gleam persisted, just a splinter of light amongst the brush. He dropped his eyes and let his gaze drift to the narrowed trail ahead. He shifted his hip in the saddle and turned half-way around to look at Johnny. He was a few paces behind and off to the side, looking down at hands fisted around his reins.

A slight nod—he'd seen.

Scott drew a bunched bandana from his pants pocket and reined in his mount until Johnny came abreast of him. "Something shiny up there." He paused to wipe the cloth over his forehead and down his cheek.

"Bet that twenty bucks you owe it's a rifle."

"Sucker bet, Johnny. But who's holding it and what he's doing on Lancer land, is the real mystery." He took his time folding the bandana into a neat square. "What do you want to do about it?"

"Feel like gambling?"

"What if he just shoots?"

"At least we'll know where we stand."

"I'm not so sure I want to take a chance on the gentleman getting nervous. There aren't a lot of choices. If we turn and run, we're likely to get a bullet. The trail narrows through here, no place to hide. Although we could get behind our horses."

"I'd just as soon get shot than walk back to Lancer."

Scott pushed the bandana back into his pocket. "Whoever it is, maybe he's just out shooting game…"

He dropped behind Johnny as they edged along the rocky rim of the canyon wall until there was a good fifteen feet between their horses.

Loose rock glancing down the slant of the hill was startling, like a warning to look up. There was a man there, rifle at aim. All they could see was gun and hat.

"Don't lift a finger or you're dead!" The voice was full, clear...and familiar. "Sit still while I come down."

The man picked his way down the slope, half sliding into a hollow. For a moment the man's head disappeared, then bobbed up again. He hesitated, looking at them for a few seconds. Then he disappeared again into a deeper portion of the draw.

Scott's hand darted to his holster.

Johnny's voice was whisper-soft. "There was another man with him at the ranch."

His hand slid back to the saddle horn while his eyes searched the brush. The cowboy moved toward them on the trail with short bowlegged strides, his face lowered close to the upraised rifle. There was no mistaking the arrogant swagger. A dozen steps away from Scott's horse, the man raised his head and shouted, "Albie! Get down here."

Cooper gestured with his rifle. "Off those horses."

Scott cast a quick look glance at Johnny and swung down from the saddle.

"Now there's no law here, so I'll make some calls of my own. Drop those pistols, too."

"You think you got it in you to try and take' em?" Johnny's cool voice waved the smile from Cooper's face.

The cowboy stepped forward and jabbed the muzzle of his gun against Scott's chest. "I want my money."

Scott gave a small smile. "I've been fixing line cabins; does it look like I have any money on me? Turn around and ride out, Cooper. We can still forget this ever happened."

"No. If I can't get hard cash then I'll take something else."

"What? You're going to kill me for twenty dollars?"

Cooper edged back a few steps, his eyes flitting from Johnny back to Scott. "Albie, you cover the dark-haired one."

The boy shook his head. "Coop, no. You didn't say nothing about killing."

"Just do it! There won't be any killing—at least not yet."

Cooper waved his gun. "Now, mister, you lead that horse away from the draw to that tree." He nodded. "I'll take those horses with me, and your gun belts, they should earn top dollar all right."

Scott shrugged and took up the slack in his reins.

"Uh-huh, give me that belt, first."

His hand drifted down to his holster and stayed over the buckle. He flung up his arms, slapping the reins flat against his horse's neck. The horse bucked away while Scott reached for his pistol.

Cooper dodged the flailing hooves and raised his rifle.

~o~o~o~

Johnny threw himself into the boy as he ran past, sweeping him up and dumping him on the ground.

Beside him, Scott's gun roared.

Cooper took the bullet and went to his knees like a sinning man in church. His arm swung wide, snapping out a shot before hitting the ground.

Scott grunted as the bullet plucked his trouser leg. Driven backwards, he lurched to the edge of the draw and vanished.

Taking a fistful of Albie's shirtfront, Johnny buried his pistol under the kid's chin, forcing his head back. The boy's eyes widened and bulged, all jack-rabbity again.

"You head out of here. Now."

The boy stumbled to his feet and glanced to the fallen heap of man to his right.

Johnny shook his head. "My brother didn't miss. Neither will I."

He watched Albie's retreating back for a moment, then ran to the edge of the draw. Tipping forward, he saw Scott's haphazard path down the side of the hill, but no brother. He slipped over the edge and slid down. Undergrowth tugged at his boot heels and sent him sprawling. He popped up, surprised when his hand came away smeared with fresh blood. The grass parting before him, he stared to the side, finally seeing what shouldn't be there—a boot.

"Easy. Let me take a look." Johnny frowned, his view lingering on the torn trouser and the red running down the length of Scott's leg.

"How is it?"

"I'd say you did it up real good this time. We gotta get that bleedin' stopped."

Scott took the bandana out of his pocket and thrust it into Johnny's hand.

"Cooper?" The name was hissed out when the cloth was wrapped and knotted around his thigh.

"You drilled him. He won't be causin' anyone trouble."

"The boy?"

"I let him go."

"Think he was along for the ride, anyway. Got more than he bargained for." Scott squinted to the top of the hill. "I don't relish trying to get back up there. Any horses around?"

"No, they scattered once the shooting started." Johnny stood and held out his hand.

Scott huffed out a breath and clasped it. "Sorry Johnny, it looks like we'll be walking back to Lancer after all."

~o~o~o~

Scott chewed on his lip, feeling hollow-eyed. He stared at the bottle of `Dr. Good' Johnny held in his hand. Shielding his wounded leg, he tried hard not to look at the blood covering the cot's ancient mattress. It was a sharp reminder of all that went wrong earlier in the day, making the lumpy pad slick with a warm, greasy feel.

Johnny tipped the half-empty bottle, and the fluid sloshed from side to side. Their eyes met over the garish yellow and black label proclaiming the contents a cure-all for everything from dyspepsia to the quaking tremors.

Looking intent, Johnny held the bottle up to the lantern light. "You know, we can try this to get it to stop bleeding," he said, in a soft drawl, "or that." He cocked his head towards the hearth.

Scott's eyes shifted to the blackened pit, seeing Johnny's knife perched near the edge of the flames.

A sudden pop of cork and white-hot pain blossomed from his thigh. It spiked hard and bit into his brain. The breath whooshed out of him. "God, Johnny! What the hell…" Writhing into the pain, he clawed at his leg. Johnny's hands clamped around his wrists, drawing them away.

He fought against the strong grip until the pain lessened, leaving him out of breath. "Next time…next time give me some damn warning."

Johnny let go of his wrists and grabbed the clean linen pads. "Hope there won't be a next time."

~o~o~o~

"How you doin'?" A faint nod was all Johnny expected—and all he got. "Barranca and…your horse…are probably half-way to Lancer by now. If they go the south route, Cipriano will pick them up and know something's wrong."

Johnny tugged on the moth-eaten blanket to cover the dark stain on the mattress near Scott's thigh. All that walking to get to the line shack—too much blood leaked out of the wound before they got it to stop. He raised his eyes at Scott's hushed sigh of pain. "When are you gonna come up with a name for that animal?"

Scott turned his head on the folded-up coat to study him—and the question, before answering. "All right, I'm a little shy about naming my horse. Lost too many during the Rebellion to name them."

"That good of rider back then, huh?"

"Adequate, more than adequate, though I _was_ well-versed in a tuck and roll strategy as a form of dismount. Confederate snipers were better at shooting than I was at riding. Horses presented a larger target. The one I remember best did have a name: Little John. A strapping bay, seventeen hands high. It was at Yellow Tavern, only I didn't lose him—he lost me. Little John was my last horse…for a good while."

Yellow Tavern. The name meant nothing to Johnny, but despite Scott's wan smile over his horse, it hinted of danger, bloodshed—death. Maybe it was Scott's version of Sonora. He understood the mess, the chaos of a war. The dirty border wars anyway. When you didn't know a friend from a bastard, and were always one bullet away from getting planted. He figured his brother knew something about that, too. Different, but the same somehow.

Scott's eyes were closing; maybe he'd sleep a little. His face had lost color, except for two red spots, one high on each cheekbone. So a fever was coming then. Well, Scott had weathered worse.

Every now and then his brother would let go another bit of his life before Lancer—that prison back east still being a closed book. Johnny wondered what it had been like, locked up for a year. He knew about jails, had been in more hard-luck cells than what he'd ever tell Murdoch. And his time with the Rurales was short, almost ending with bang at the side of the road.

Johnny squinted at Scott and the lamplight blurred, leaving him framed in a golden oval. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't picture Scott as he might have looked back then. Skinny, chin dotted with a thin beard…maybe he just didn't want to.

Restless, Scott shifted his good leg to bend at the knee, his eyelids opening. "What're you doing, Johnny?" Slurred out, the question was tinted with demand, his normal accent deepening.

Johnny's eyes sought out the veins on the back of his own hand. "Nothin', just…nothin'. Get some rest; we still have to figure out a way to get back."

Scott's head lolled on the coat pillow and his eyes closed. "Going to walk. Give me…a few minutes…"

Smiling, Johnny leaned back against the hard slats of his chair. "Sure, Boston. You take your time."

An eye slivered open at the old nickname, then closed again.

Johnny pulled the woolen blanket up higher on his brother's chest and shortened the lamp wick. Thinking about an unseen prison far away in the east and peach fuzz on a brand new Lieutenant, he exhaled. "Yeah, Scott, you just take some time."

~End~

01/10


	45. Tidings of Comfort and Joy

**No warnings.

Tidings of Comfort and Joy

Muslin curtains twitched at the window of a tiny cabin, just beyond the muddy rim of the forest. Two grey heads bobbed at the leaded pane.

"I told you so. See how they're following the trail?" Cecilia, the younger of the two, pointed eagerly through the tracts of rain on the window. "And now they've stopped."

Her sister, Eudora, gave a quick chuckle. "They're coming here, I can feel it."

"He looks very nice, the one in front." Cecilia gave a small frown. "Do you think he'll recover?"

Eudora nodded so firmly the bun at the top of her head jiggled loose a pin and threatened to slide down to her ear. "I would hope so. I think they're the ones we've been waiting for."

Cecelia tickled the soft ear of the orange tabby sitting hunched on the arm of the chair. He opened one eye and gave a half-hearted bat at her finger. "It's almost the solstice. They've traveled far."

Eudora drew a favored blue shawl tight around her shoulders. "What if the travel proves too much? The past hangs heavy there, still. They might not be up to the task."

"They are," Cecilia said quietly.

"We don't even know their names."

"Scott and John Lancer."

"English?" asked Eudora.

"More so Scottish." corrected Cecilia. With bits of French going back to the Normans and a delicious mix of Aztec and Spanish. Courtesy of both maternal lines."

"Two mothers? Now that is interesting. With such divergent paths, they may not belong in the large house together."

"Nonsense," Cecilia snapped. "They are both destined to be there."

A shrill whinny cut through the night air. The two pressed closer to the window. The rain had turned into sleet, tap-a-tapping on the thatched roof.

"They're very vulnerable now. They've lost much along the way," Eudora murmured.

~o~o~o~

Scott hoisted Johnny's weight against his shoulder, strangely gratified that his brother was warm and staggered towards the threshold like a drunk finding his way home. A woman opened the door for him and he carefully negotiated the door jamb so as not to hit Johnny's head against it. It wouldn't do to have two wounds there, not when the first was deadly enough.

He crossed the silent woodsmoke-scented living room awkwardly pushing and pulling Johnny along with him to the room the old lady was pointing out. A bed with embroidered white linen had its coverlets pulled halfway down and Scott lowered his brother's dead weight onto it.

Johnny, so still, had a livid bruise at his temple. Scott rested his hand on the iron bed frame, unable to go one step further.

The woman— _women_ —for now there were two, clucked and tcch'ed in sympathy over the ugly wound, even as they made introductions. One had the foresight of water and basin, some bandages.

Gently, Scott cradled Johnny's head in his hands while Eudora and Cecilia swabbed most of the muck away. The wet made his fingers ache again from the cold. He twisted around to see the wound as best he could. A long, angry red furrow planed itself from bruised temple to behind the ear. It had stopped bleeding long ago, but even with the manhandling, Johnny hadn't stirred.

Scott looked dispassionately across the bedroom, unable, unwilling to think. He always prided himself on considering the angles of statistics and probability. But this?

Johnny possessed a fierce self-centeredness that Scott admired. Albeit not from the start, but it had grown on Scott and that in and of itself, was amazing. He suspected Johnny's sense of self-worth was the one thing that had saved him. Self-centeredness, and now family.

But that was on the other side of a long, long bridge, arching across rock and winter air, suspended on faith as much as anything else. Faith in knowledge, faith in impossible chances. Faith in Johnny, when it came right down to it.

And it left him quite bereft of anything to say. Eudora was saying something though, and he forced himself to concentrate, to make the words fit with the sounds. Her head tilted to the side, lips pinched together. "He's lucky, all things considered." He knew she was looking at the old puckered scar planted below Johnny's left clavicle.

Scott took those words and tucked them away, hoping it was the sort of currency he'd be able to spend elsewhere. Johnny was a lot of things, but lucky usually wasn't one of them.

Hadn't been the first time, or this time. It was bad luck all the way and Johnny had been hit with it just the same as if he'd been standing in the middle of a street facing someone's bullet.

Only this time the bullet wasn't from a stranger. It had been Scott's.

So, maybe lucky the bullet had creased instead of plowing into the skull, lucky that Johnny hadn't died before they stumbled upon the cabin because things had been touch and go, no one needed to tell Scott that more than once. But where was luck when his bullet sliced into Johnny's head in the first place? Where was it when two men came out of the dark demanding horses and money? When he was left with bloodied hands and something that would haunt him?

Scott didn't feel like being grateful, not when Johnny was so pale. Not when he just lay there. Not until Johnny walked out of the cabin on his own two legs would Scott be grateful. Maybe not even then.

Cecelia sighed and pushed him to the chair beside the bed. He sank into the cushion, fingers buried in his hair.

"I'm right here, Johnny," he said softly to the space between his knees.

~o~o~o~

Scott wasn't scared, not by this, not by something he couldn't see. He was, however, freezing and wet. So he was cold, not afraid. His guard was down, though it was nighttime and raining. He and Johnny heard the men before they saw them, which ought to have given them some kind of advantage.

A man moved from behind a tree, in the darkest part of the night, and Scott found himself more irritated than anything else. Waiting for him to come out to the open seemed like a colossal waste of time.

There. Black against black. Felt the man move again, cautious, maybe scared. Waiting for him and Johnny to make the first move. A tiny, insignificant warning bell tinkled away in the back of his brain, with all the urgency of a fire alarm. There can't be just one, the bells converged enough to tell him.

Then, behind him, a hard voice rang out across the clearing, and they were caught. Scott turned immediately back to the forest, but all he saw were trees and Johnny slipping into them.

The tall one, neck as thick as Scott's thigh, came forward, his words turned to mist by the cold, difficult to tell anything about him other than his size, silhouetted against the forest as he was. Scott circled a little to the side, hoping to draw him off, get into a better position.

As he fired, another shadow leapt.

He shuddered awake to a few minutes of not understanding where he was, somewhere with Johnny bleeding, somewhere in the forest. Tinkling chimes from the clock on top of the bureau had woken him. Almost six a.m.

A cat had taken up residence on his lap when he'd been sleeping and was not amused by the sudden jarring. It stretched and batted at the blue tassels on the knitted shawl someone had thrown across his shoulders and chest.

From the light slanting in through the bedroom window, the sun had come up. The mountain was just the same, like some framed print on his grandfather's wall, all beams of light and frosty clouds. A new day was here and an absurd thought occurred to him—they would miss Murdoch's holiday party after all.

He turned away from the window when he heard a quick intake of breath.

The expression on Eudora's face was complex to say the least, hidden beneath folds of plump skin, much like an apple that had been forgotten on a window sill. Her smile wicked sharp and wistful at the same time. She drew a finger to her lips and whispered, "He's coming awake."

Scott scrambled up and found Johnny, eyes a bit glassy, contemplating the ceiling. A cup of water was pressed into his hand and he drank gratefully, passing it back after he finished.

Eudora stood straight, surprisingly tall. "Hello young man, nice to see you looking so rested."

She turned to Scott, who had perched on the side of Johnny's bed. "And you look pleased."

He shrugged, not knowing what to say because the words were clogged in his throat. "I'm happy we can leave soon."

Johnny moved one hand across his chest, where cotton linen covered the old scars. Protecting himself and Scott knew it.

She stared suddenly at Johnny and Scott wished he was between them, for all that he trusted Eudora. "And you, John Lancer, did you accomplish anything?"

An odd question, straight to the heart, and Johnny was too pale for it. For a moment, Scott considered marching the old woman out of the room. His mouth opened and Eudora's blue gaze was all on him.

"You don't need to protect him, Scott. It's just a question."

Johnny gave one quick burst of laughter, a warning that Scott recognized immediately: I can handle this. "Between us, we got the job done."

"Exactly so." She patted Johnny's hand, the one that wasn't sliding a finger under the tight bandage at his temple.

Cecelia came in with a red-patterned china bowl of something steaming, passed it to Johnny.

Eudora captured her hand. "Even on this holy day there is much work to do. My sister and I will leave you alone."

The room was warm, and Scott noticed the warmth, noticed the dampness in the middle of his back, a drop tip-toeing down to his tailbone.

"You winning the argument?" asked Johnny, fingers laced around the bowl.

Had he spoken out loud? Waved his hands around? Both? Scott looked at him then, braced himself for it. Johnny's eyes were flint hard. "One of the men was killed; the other took off for God knows where. We still have the horses and the money. "

One blink, then two. "Well, I guess we're square with whoever they were, because they bought the dance. And I guess we're square with Murdoch. 'Cause I wouldn't want to owe him anything." He nodded to the open door. "I'm sure we're square with those two ladies; since you're gonna take care of it." He took the bowl in one hand and edged up in bed, forehead wrinkling with the effort. "Who are they anyway?"

"The granny with her hair all pulled to the top of her head is Eudora. The cook is Cecilia. I saw the light from their window, commandeered the room and threw you into bed."

"So that's why my head hurts."

Scott grimaced. Johnny was going to cut loose, maybe starting now. "Johnny?"

"Yeah?" and his brother's voice rose a little, caused a rustle in the other room where Eudora and Cecilia were putting dishes away into the cupboard. If Johnny noticed, he didn't care. He gave Scott a quicksilver smile. "That man who died, he catch your bullet?"

He nodded.

"So he was behind me, then." Johnny rubbed the flat of his palm against the side of his head. The bandage tilted askew giving him the rakish look of Captain Kidd about to set sail. "Some fancy shooting out there."

Scott looked at the clock again, the numbers on the face wavered in front of him. He knuckled the fuzziness away. "I don't think anyone in their right mind would say that."

"Huh." Johnny had the uncanny ability to say so much in one single syllable. He shook his bowl a little, uncovered large bits of meat hidden by congealing gravy. They disappeared down his throat, the spoon clinking against the bottom. Once done, Johnny wiped his mouth and hands on the napkin, and adjusted his expression to something lighter. Maybe keeping with the fact that he was still alive—that they both were.

Johnny's attention flicked to the side, then back to Scott. Refusing to talk, but asking him something all the same. Telling him something.

Finally, "I guess we're okay, too."

Scott shifted his seat, but didn't break his stare. Neither did Johnny.

Perhaps it was out of place, but he started to laugh. It felt strange, like his throat wasn't used to it anymore. Maybe that's what happened when you found family.

It was a familiar understanding that death existed in life. He hadn't counted on it being so close, however, or by his own hand. He wanted to tell Johnny that.

But he was asleep, so Scott went back to his chair, gathered up the shawl and sat.

~o~o~o~

The two white-haired ladies stared through muslin curtains at the brothers as they made their way slowly to the rim of the forest.

Eudora's fingers moved restlessly. "Murdoch Lancer is waiting for them. Worried and very impatient, as well he should be."

Cecilia studied the orange cat lounging on the arm of the chair, blinking with green-eyed solemnity. "Do you doubt me now when I say they belong to him and the grand house?"

Eudora shook her head. "The cattle will be plenty, horses, too. Troubles will spike along the way, but there will be three to stand together." She cackled with satisfaction. "Perhaps even a grandchild or two—or four—for old Murdoch."

"Their futures?" Cecelia bent over to retrieve her embroidery bag from under the chair.

"As if you don't know, Sister."

"Tell me anyway."

Eudora tapped a finger on her plump cheek. "I see young John quite content with his stable of horses, known for their breeding and quality. He'll run Lancer as his own, one day."

"And of Scott?"

"He won't soon forget what happened this Christmas. But I sense a long life, fulfilling for him and his bride." Eudora sat and gathered her needle and hoop. "I just hope the state of California is ready for him."

Their threads claimed the rest of the conversation, thoughts leaching into the sun-baked, frost-cracked mountain trail the brothers traveled on. It was too beautiful a day for anything else.

The End/2012


	46. Impervious Swamps

**No warnings except a tetchy Scott and Johnny. A WHN for CAWH when emotions were still swirling around. Thanks to Kali for the beta done so long ago. P.S. Thanks to Adriana, too!

 _Hope and the future for me are not in lawns and cultivated fields, not in towns and cities, but in the impervious and quaking swamps._ Henry David Thoreau, Walking

Impervious Swamps

Stumbling back into the oak's trunk, Johnny slid down rough bark to the ground. Lifted two searching fingers to his chin, and waggled it a little to assess the damage then shook out his fist, glancing at freshly opened knuckles.

"Are we done?" he asked through a lip the size of his thumb.

Groaning, Scott rose to a crouch, rolling first one shoulder then the next. He clambered to a thick tree root, sat panting at the darkening clouds while he passed the back of his hand under his nose. Perused the smear of blood across the skin, then saw something glittering in the dirt.

His voice hitched as he tried to catch his breath. "Is that yours? I didn't know you had a gold tooth."

Johnny cocked his jaw, pushed his tongue around to count teeth until it hit the back of his mouth. "Not anymore." He sniffed. "Cost me a bundle, too."

Shifting, Scott turned his wrecked face to Johnny. "This is idiotic."

Johnny jacked up both knees, leaned forward and snorted. Spat a blood-streaked plug between his boots. He gazed across the draw to where the horses had stopped cropping grass long enough to enjoy the show, and whistled low into the still air of countryside. Answering thunder rumbled in the distance and a few spits of rain wet the grass.

"Scott, next time, you get the calf."

 _Earlier:_

If he had to pinpoint a time when it all started, Scott would be hard pressed to say—perhaps a few weeks ago. But an epiphany came as he cut through the bevy of horses in the corral on his way from the barn: _Johnny was annoying._

It felt good, to have that dawn on him.

He would've thrown his fist into the face of anyone who suggested there'd be benefits to Johnny leaving Lancer and for a while, it seemed to be a real enough threat. Two weeks since his brother and Murdoch had ridden together in search of wild horses—an event so out of the ordinary it was surprising frogs didn't fall from the sky—and Scott's pendulum still swung between an acute sense of relief and a heady foreboding.

Johnny was staying. Cue the harps and roses.

But since he wasn't on a track to Hell with Wes, Johnny was raising it. Scott was rediscovering his brother was at his most insufferable when he was in a good mood. For the last fourteen days, Johnny had been foaming up horses on a reckless, care-free bent in fairly consistent style. He managed to get everything done that Murdoch threw at him, yet maintained a certain out-of-character bonhomie.

Maybe that's what happened after a tipping point was breeched, when both father and son tiptoed back from the precipice, still alive to talk about it. Or they would have talked, if the principle players had been anyone else besides Johnny and Murdoch.

So, it was no great shock to find his brother missing from the corral. When he glanced around, a bored-looking Frank pointed his finger at the bunkhouse door.

He looked up in time to hear raucous laughter and Johnny's voice rising above it all, then the sound of glass breaking.

Scott's feet stuttered. He leapt towards the doorway, ran right into a solidly swung punch on the other side.

 _Of all the stupid things…_

~o~o~o~

The fourth time he said it, Scott pitched a pawn at his head.

Johnny caught it in mid-flight and choked he was laughing so hard. "Mad Manuela from Manteca!" he shouted around a huge smile. Twirled the hand-carved game piece in his hand and slapped it down to accompany the rest of Scott's hard-lost booty.

"It's not that funny," he muttered, slouching in his chair plotting out his next strategic move, because while the first two had missed their mark, he was bound for a change in luck.

"Shoulda gone for the checkers. Would've been less work," Johnny returned, eyes flicking from board to fireplace to Scott's Queen. His lips were pulled back, mouth hung slightly open, about to make the `em' sound.

Scott spotted his Thoreau, spine split over the couch arm. It was opened to a favorite chapter and not for the first time he wondered how he got suckered—and that was the word for it—into this catastrophe of a chess game. Because if he didn't get away from his brother right now, he was going to…concede the game. Hoisting the white flag was better than hearing about Mad Manuela from Manteca, over and over again.

The words already danced in his head: the delicate `m's', the elongated `l's' and the slightly absurd, sharp `eca' clinging to each new thought. Even Thoreau at his most philosophical couldn't stem the tide of images Mad Manuela invoked.

He was sunk.

~o~o~o~

He'd lost him. Somewhere between the advertisement of land for sale in Kansas and a boldly printed note exhorting a sale for _Arundels' New! Tinted Spectacles_ , Scott had lost him. The wrens chirping outside the mercantile were more attentive.

"Johnny?"

"What?"

"Care to repeat what I just said?"

Johnny pried his attention from the nearby shelves, gazed at Scott blankly. "Huh?"

"You're not even looking at this."

"No, I am. Keep goin'."

"So, a million acres of land is being offered for sale by the Burlington and Missouri Railroad Company on a ten year credit. Only six percent interest."

"No shit," mused Johnny, eyes elsewhere.

"The Indian Colonization Society has already sent over seventy families to this peaceful garden spot in Kansas. Purchasers are guaranteed full protection from the tribes living in the locality, for the first two months after buying."

That got Johnny's focus snapped well and truly back on him. "Protection?"

"So it says. And here's another advertisement from Independence, Kansas. This arms company has over fourteen hundred second hand six-shooters and one thousand Winchester rifles for sale." He raised an eyebrow. "It appears to me the more recent natives of Kansas are a bit nervous. What do you suppose those seventy families managed a stop at Independence before venturing westward to the garden spot?"

Johnny looked nonplussed. "Can't be too peaceful of a spot with all that firepower."

Scott huffed out a laugh. Johnny was staring across the mercantile again, but Scott let it go. At least he was halfway engaged.

"It's the word `colonization'. Plenty of room there for offense, depending on your point of view."

Johnny waved a distracted hand over the newspaper in front of them. "Okay, so what else do we have to get here?"

Clasping his hands together in front of his belt, Scott leaned forward. "The goods have already been ordered. We've been done for a while."

"Oh." Johnny stared dumbly at the black print. His face contorted in disgust. "Are you blind? How can you not see her?" He hissed and hooked a thumb towards the back of the store. "Don't ask me to read a newspaper when she's not twenty feet away."

Scott sighed. He wasn't blind, he had urges, and yes, he'd seen her. Long dark hair was piled up in some sort of twisty intricate fashion, the mechanics of which would surely have been taught from childhood to get it just so. Yellow checked gingham pulled tight across all the important places. She bent over to finger a few bright knickknacks on a lower shelf, hiking up her long skirt in the process to show a delicate-turned ankle enclosed in a soft kid boot. It was a casual display of femininity that broadcast availability. She had a sort of feline sleekness about her, a woman of class that was far more Scott's style than Johnny's. So yes, oh yes, he'd seen her.

He blinked. "Are you going to be long?"

Johnny snorted. "No." He gave the woman a lingering look, then turned his attention back to the counter. He shuffled the newspaper, brow creasing in concentration and cleared his throat. "Okay, what else?"

Scott raised his eyebrows. "That's it? You're letting her go?"

Johnny managed to look affronted. "What? I'm listenin'."

"Sure you are."

Johnny jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "Scott, that lady over there? That takes time." He looked briefly shattered. "I don't have that kind of time."

"Since when?"

"I never figured on gettin' any horses when I rode out with Murdoch, but since findin' that herd, it's the only thing going. They all need tending in some way. Coupled with chores, there goes my time." He gave Scott a flash of white teeth and tapped on the counter. "See? I can do two things at once. Let's get back to this paper."

But he couldn't. Two minutes later, the woman was still paying inordinate attention to the figurines in careful view of Johnny's wandering eye.

Scott snapped his fingers. "My God, just talk to her. Ask her to the dance on Saturday."

Johnny shuffled his feet, tugged unabashedly at the buttons of his trousers, head bobbing like it was on two-foot swells. "No, no, it'll be all right."

Scott turned to scoop up the newspaper. "Then let's go, Murdoch will be waiting dinner." But he was talking to himself, Johnny had changed his mind and stalked to the end of the shelves, hovering in place beside the lady like a dog on scent. _Gone._

~o~o~o~

Scott had already gulped down two cups of Walt's coffee at the barn while waiting. Was wishing for a third by the time Johnny turned up, lips one solid thin line. It was Sunday, which fell after Saturday, ergo falling after the dance, it didn't take too much intelligence to figure out why his brother was piqued. He held Barranca's reins out to Johnny, and they made their way out to the pasture.

There was nothing so unusual about a long pause, not where his brother was concerned, but actual silence was different. It was impressive really, the impromptu finger tapping Johnny was capable of against the pommel of his saddle. But after the maddening stint with Wes and the stallion, and the most recent bunkhouse fight, Scott had about enough of watching Johnny's performances.

"Do you have to do that?"

The fingers came to an abrupt halt. "Is it botherin' you?"

"I would say it's annoying."

Johnny narrowed his eyes.

Scott blew out a breath. "Let's just get this done, all right?"

"Sorry it's such a chore, ridin' with me." There was a touch of wounded indignation in Johnny's rebuttal.

Scott knew he was being irritable. Cleaning up the creek that ran through the pasture only heralded being damp and dirty for the rest of the afternoon, which was certainly nothing new. It was Wes and the Strykers, catalysts of sorts, because now there was something more offensive with just about everything since they had crossed Lancer's doorstep. Including his brother.

Run aground—stranded—his equilibrium had shifted with the realization that Johnny had every intention of leaving with Wes.

He put his mind to the trail instead, hunkered down in the saddle and concentrated on keeping his mouth shut. A breeze had picked up, bringing with it a thin sheen of ozone. Rain. Perfect.

"How did the dance go?" he asked when the silence between them stretched and threatened frost. It seemed to strike a particularly raw nerve as Johnny reined up.

"What are you so mad about, anyway?"

Scott straightened. "What? I'm not mad."

"Yeah, you are. You've been all scratchy since…" Johnny trailed off with a chuckle. "Oh."

"Since when?" He shrugged like he didn't know.

Johnny rubbed his eye with the flat of his fingers. "Since Murdoch and me had that little tussle."

"And that's funny to you, is it?"

"I'm sorry, but you should have seen the look on your face back then. I thought you were gonna kill him. Us. Whatever." Johnny's lips thinned out. "The Strykers were in the wrong and you know it."

"Yes, and yet I'm the Lancer who gets shot. Next time you want to run away, leave me out of it."

"Fine. Next time, stay out of it. No one asked you to come to the saloon anyway." Johnny gathered reins into one hand. "With any luck, the creek won't take too long." He stared at Scott, who held it tight, and nothing more was said.

The distinct cry of a calf caught their attention. Scott stood in the stirrups, twisted around. "I can't see anything. Can you?"

Johnny pointed to a shady draw. "It's comin' from over there."

They rode closer and peered over the embankment. There it was, one of the white-faced calves missing from the week's tally, bawling in earnest now, hidden amongst the brambles. Johnny sighed, an echo of his own sentiment, even as he dismounted and tipped over the edge to get the calf.

Scott was still mounted when he saw the grass slither every which way, right near Johnny's foot.

~o~o~o~

"How could you not have seen it?" Scott worked a handkerchief out of his pocket. "You were standing almost on top of it."

"Maybe that's why I didn't see it." Johnny poked around the long bloody stripe on his forearm. "Why didn't you just tell me the snake was there instead of shoving me?"

Scott watched the calf trot off without a care in the world. "It's a scratch. You fell and got a scratch."

"Pushed. Pretty hard, too."

Just a hint of accusation, but there it was all the same. "Say it plain, brother."

"You went to that fancy school, figure it out."

Something inside that had been set to simmer bubbled to the top. For two grown men, having both seen their way in the world, they could be perfectly foolish. That's what he was thinking when he dropped the handkerchief and swung.

Johnny staggered to the side, clutching his jaw. "You'd better think about what you're doin' before trying that again— _Boston_."

"You arrogant bastard."

Blinking, Johnny's expression went hard. "No, I think that little mystery was solved when the old man invited us in for drinks."

Circling, knuckles bunched and hard, Scott lunged. Johnny dodged, sent his fist out, skimming Scott's chin with enough force his head bounced back.

Scott blocked a wild swing and caught his brother by the wrist; twisted his forearm a half-turn, shoved him back the way he came.

Johnny pointed a warning. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

"Me? Try taking a look in the mirror."

"That's it." Johnny beckoned him forward.

A left hook whistled past his cheek, but the upper cut that followed hit dead center, drove him to his knees.

It went from a measure of genteelness to an ugly brawl in less time than Scott needed to pull on his boots in the morning. They spent the next few minutes roughing up the grass and each other in a tangled knot of _eyegougingearpullingkneetotheballs_ before Scott lucked into an opening. Sent a haymaker right into it.

Johnny collapsed on top of him in a confusing mix of limbs, sweat and blood.

Chest heaving, Scott pushed at his brother's sprawled body. "Why do you have to…? Can't you just…?" His voice was ragged.

 _What did he expect Johnny to do?_

It shouldn't have mattered that Johnny made the decision to leave. Not anymore. And he was pretty sure those thoughts had never crossed his mind before. But he remembered how Johnny was set on leaving; trying to make sure everything was in place, as if he'd never been there. Without warning, the Pardee mess came to mind, when Johnny had made another choice. Once you were blindsided, it wasn't supposed to happen twice.

He shifted a little, loosening his grip a fraction. The legs across his chest twitched up and before he knew it, Johnny had kicked free, his face gullied with exasperation and anger.

Scott started to collect himself. The sparks of his own anger sputtered, finally died. He prodded his cheek carefully, felt the lump already forming. It was eerily quiet once they had stopped and when he spoke it was too loud. "This is idiotic."

He slid a glance to Johnny, who sat there with a bewildered look on his face.

The hint of betrayal still niggled at him. And Scott knew what that felt like that, no matter who did it: brother or comrade. But he shut the door to that thought quickly. He'd had enough to last a lifetime. "I want you to know I didn't mean it."

Johnny dipped his head. "I think I understand."

He frowned.

"I've been gettin' on your nerves lately. It's okay."

"What?"

"It's different now that I'm stayin'."

Scott felt the blood drain from his face. "Oh, no. It's not like that."

Johnny shook his head. "No, I don't think that. It's just been a helluva few months tryin' to get used to things. And then Wes came along and I figured—shit—I'm not ready for ranching." He spit out an incredulous laugh. "The thing with Wes and Murdoch, well, that was a scrabble. I didn't know how it was gonna play out. Had my share of cold sweats over it." He looked up. "And I know you've been part of it, from the start. Anyway you look at it, this last month's been a real pistol."

Scott felt his throat clamp shut. Couldn't distinguish exactly why, or the source. Didn't know if it was relief or more anger. He wondered if maybe it was everything—every damned thing since Johnny surprised him by shaking hands goodbye on the portico.

And he was about to squash it down again. But it didn't have to be such a tight and desperate act anymore. There was time. To learn. To be happy or sad or the billions of things in between. There was time to make mistakes and fix things. Scott nodded, wasn't sure his voice would allow anything else.

"It's different," Johnny repeated. "I don't know exactly where I thought I was gonna be right now, but it sure as hell wasn't sittin' on Lancer ground."

Johnny scrubbed his nails against the stubble beneath his jaw. "I know I've been a pain in the ass the last couple of weeks."

Scott started to shake his head, nodded instead. "Partly. But you've been happy, more so than I've ever seen you." He waved a hand. "Far be it from me, Johnny. I was out of line."

Johnny threw Scott a half-smile, ran his hand up and down the back of his head. "Don't know what's goin' on lately. I either want to smile, or beat up someone, and I don't have a clue which. I do know I don't like gettin' tossed over at socials."

He barked out a laugh, opened up his lip again. "Ow," he winced. "Maybe you should have asked her to dinner instead. You don't like to dance, right?"

"I like dancin' just fine," Johnny muttered and Scott realized that he honestly didn't know how Johnny felt about dancing, among other things.

Weather claimed the rest of the conversation, the tension leaching into the black clouds. It was too soothing of a rain for any recriminations or regrets and Scott felt too sore for them in any case.

Johnny angled his face away. "Are we gonna make it?"

Looking at his brother, Scott felt the tug of a smile curl his bruised mouth. "Yeah," he nodded. "I think so."

The End

8/12


	47. En el Fuego

**No warnings. Thanks to Adriana for the correct Spanish ;-).

En el Fuego

Johnny rode Barranca to the top of the rise and pulled up. He looked down and saw Scott sitting on his horse, one leg thrown over saddle horn. Scott's hat was tipped forward, warding off the last of the sun's rays, one elbow propped against his raised knee, his hand cupping his chin. Serious thinking going on. But this time it wouldn't be about the new mill, or importing the fancy carriage from Modesto. Even money said it all had to do with a recent trip to San Francisco and finding one brown-eyed, long-haired Irish girl.

If he had to give one word to describe Scott, it would be 'alone'. His brother just looked…alone.

Johnny rode through the soft green grasses and stopped beside the stockinged bay. He started to speak then hesitated. Finally, "Pretty land out here."

Scott stared at the blue heron standing long-legged in the sandy shoals of the creek, his lips tightening. "Very." He turned in the saddle. "I thought you were going into town."

"I'm goin', just thought I'd stop here first. Is that a crime?"

The lines on Scott's face eased somewhat. "No. No crime there." He shot a steady look. "But not your usual modus operandi, either."

"My what?"

But his question was pushed away with a wave of hand.

Johnny sighed, Scott would only talk when he was damn well good and ready. And really, what did he expect him to say? He loosened his reins and slouched in the saddle. "Tú caístes en el fuego…" His mutter faded when Scott turned to look at him.

"I fell into the fire?"

Johnny hunched his shoulders, trying to soften the remark with a fleeting grin.

Scott's face changed and he looked down at his hands. "I suppose I did, but it doesn't matter now."

"Who are you foolin'? It does matter."

"Did you ever…caístes en el fuego?"

Her name sprang unbidden to his mind. Eyes closed, he remembered her touch, the soft pads of her fingertips slipping across his forehead. He always pictured her with yellow hair, right from her first words. "Maybe."

Scott's head jerked up. "Mattie?"

Johnny gave a clipped nod.

There was a slick of smile, just curving the edge of Scott's lips. "Nobody but you would take off bare-footed across a field of stickers."

"At least I tried."

Scott's hand drifted to his hat brim, tugged it down sharply so Johnny could only see the barest hint of tired blue eyes.

"Why didn't you try and find her afterwards, Johnny?"

He shifted and leaned forward, pulling a few wisps of mane from under the saddle blanket and kept his voice light. "She was gone so fast. There was never any time after the dark lifted, not really. Just that damned note and the dust kicked up behind her carriage. What was I to think?"

Scott brought his leg down and found the stirrup. "I love her, Johnny. I love Moira."

Love, not loved. Huh. There was depth to those words, he wondered whether his brother ever said them to Moira. He could feel the twist in Scott, had felt something like it himself falling to his knees in that briar-filled pasture. "I know."

He flicked a fat fly away from the back of his hand. "San Francisco isn't all that far. I bet you could find her real easy."

"She made it very clear what she wanted."

So there was more to the story than just leaving his brother high and dry. "You blame her for speakin' her mind?"

Scott narrowed his eyes.

"Okay, okay just askin' is all. A man feels that much, he oughta do somethin' about it."

A killdeer careened out of the brush taking their attention.

"Look, Scott, let's go to town, pick up a few bottles of whiskey and make it a night. Big Ed'll be there, deep in faro fever. You always call the turn true—what about it?"

"You go on. I need a few minutes." Scott dipped his head. "I'll catch up."

Barranca was antsy, picking up on the mood. He bunched the reins in one hand, pulling them short. He cast one more glance at the man beside him. The lowering sun threw shadows over Scott's face, making it all sharp angles.

Right then, Johnny knew he'd be drinking by himself tonight. "All right, Brother. I'll save ya a glass."

The End

10/03/16


	48. Mercury's Flight

**No real warnings. Mercury is the Roman god of travelers, among other things. The word _mercurial_ is commonly used to refer to something or someone volatile or unstable, derived from Mercury's swift flights from place to place.

Mercury's Flight

Johnny toyed with his coffee at the kitchen table. Every once in a while, he would look over at his brother. Scott's back was to him and he was looking out the window, staring off into sunshine and air as though he'd find a big secret hanging mid-way between the hacienda and the corral.

Murdoch was in San Francisco and although he'd sent good news, it had been a tough week all in all, and here they were, making breakfast last as long as they could. The coffee was bitter and cold and he wished Scott would say something, which just went to show how bad a week it was.

Scott crumpled the telegram in one tight fist. "I'm riding to the Bar A and talk to Albright."

"What about our lost cowboy bein' shot at and taken to Val because he was trespassing? And the cut fence line? Or the 'Get Out' signs showing up on the property all of a sudden? They don't mean anything?" Too many questions all at once guaranteed Scott would grind his molars. Mulish—that was one word for it. Just one.

"That's exactly why I'm going."

"You think Albright's gonna listen to you?"

Scott turned away from the window and his face bore a puzzled expression, making his eyes frown. "I can't believe you have a problem with this. The telegram Murdoch sent shows we have the law on our side."

It was all they had heard the day before Murdoch left: leave it to the law, leave it to the law, justice will come out ahead. Sometimes justice was about as solid as smoke. "Paper don't mean a damn thing when someone's holding a forty-four."

"Albright may be a bully who likes to push boundaries, but he abides the law. He could have had Willis shot and killed easily enough, but he didn't. And it was him who set this all in motion in the first place by taking the complaint to the courts, not by using Bar A guns."

Johnny sat in silence for several heartbeats, not even looking at his brother, which was all the permission Scott needed.

"So, are we going?"

Yesterday, Johnny recalled, he'd been able to talk his brother into throwing off some pasture work and going to the lake. It was easy, the ride across their land, knowing no matter how far they went, they'd still be on Lancer. The laughs were easy, too, the back and forth talk about nothin' more important than what Maria was making for supper that night, or which mare would foal first. A thousand afternoons in a thousand shitty towns, the only redeeming things had been his horse and gun. Johnny always found it harder to end the day than Scott did.

But today was a different day. He fingered the rim of his cup, his thumbnail sliding into the chip on the side as smooth as butter. "Might as well," he replied. "Been waitin' a long time to see what drives a man like Albright."

He pushed away the cup and got up.

~o~o~o~

In the wake of the long summer, the trail leading off the ranch was one big long strip of dust. Johnny had seen a land dry up more than once: California, Texas, Mexico. Maybe Arizona, too. It had gotten to the point where he couldn't really remember all the places he'd been in his life and it scared him a little. Like the old man in the corner house in Spanish Wells who sat on his porch talking with his wife, only she'd been dead and gone for years. Loco. Maybe he just wanted to forget all the moving from place to place, what it meant. But the smell of the heat reminded him of his mother's perfume, dabbed behind each ear. Making tortillas with her, masa on his hands. Fried _buñuelos_ , a coal-black pony, and rain.

Johnny shifted his weight in the saddle and listened to the familiar creak. Barranca twitched his ears around to the sound, but didn't find it significant enough to turn his head. "Scott, you ever wonder why a man like Albright does the things he does? "

"Not really. While I certainly don't agree with the way he runs his ranch, it's his to run."

"He's had six foremen in the last four years, accordin' to Murdoch. Nilsen has lasted the longest, so far. It's a real wonder why he stayed on."

"Especially after Murdoch mentioned that Nilsen has a good head on his shoulders. Matter-of-fact, honest." Scott reined his horse, pulled alongside knee to knee. "He's the one who worked out the litigation for Albright."

"Who takes as he sees fit, building his kingdom bit by bit. He ramrodded the Carters off their ranch without so much as a by-your-leave."

"He did pay for it."

"Yeah, bottom dollar, and now he's going after our little strip of land, full of green pasture even in this drought and a clear, mountain-fed stream."

Johnny had been trying to figure out a way to approach the idea of comparing Murdoch and Albright. There were only so many ways, however, and Scott got there before him. He nodded like Johnny had actually said something.

"Apples and oranges, really. Murdoch has softened up considerably since the day we first met him." Scott waited a beat or two then looked at him, eyebrows raised.

They both laughed at the absurdity of the statement. There was nothing soft about Murdoch Lancer, but there no comparison to Kenneth Albright, either.

"Scott, would you've stayed?"

"If Murdoch turned out to be like Albright? Ah, excellent question." His eyebrows furrowed to a single line under the brim of his hat. "No."

"Just like that?"

"Just like that. It would have confirmed my deepest suspicions."

That was all he was going to say, the soft exhalation, the quick dart of the eyes back to Johnny, because that particular door wasn't open anymore. Scott wasn't going to question it, even though Johnny did, from time to time, his own upbringing and all the peculiarities that went along with it.

"And what about you, Johnny?"

He cleared his throat, kept his eyes on the trail. "I had it in my mind what Murdoch was before I even got on that stage to Morro Coyo and I guess what I know about Albright now kind of fit the bill about right, at least back then. Oh, I would've stayed long enough to collect my money, maybe take a look or two at the big house and that corral full of horses, but men like Albright leave a bad taste in my mouth." His hand came off the saddle horn, gestured and returned. "It wouldn't have worked out."

It almost didn't work out anyway, but he and Murdoch had come to terms—shaky or not—after a ride to Black Mesa to look at horses.

They rode in silence for a couple of miles until a sign post advised them a decision had to be made. The 'No Trespassing' was written in black paint, with a bit dribbled down the side, sun-worn and lightened enough to look like blood.

The trail took them over a small rise that opened to a small pond, the kind that held a lot of promise for a pretty afternoon. That is if its banks hadn't been crisscrossed by long lengths of willows tied with twine. Any body of water this close to the property line would be considered a general use stock pond, but not this one. It was too far from the main house to do much good, but Albright didn't want anyone else to take advantage of it, either. Another black mark in the man's tally.

As they passed by the end of the pond, Scott's horse skittered to the side, pulling on the bit. Barranca caught the panic and started to shimmy away. For a brief moment, nothing happened then a buzzing sound filled his ears. Johnny felt the shift of air as something moved, just to his left, a sweep of cattails tails maybe. Then, high-pitched laughter.

"Hey!" Johnny shouted, his hands full of reins and dancing horse. Barranca twisted sideways and his rump swung into Scott's horse, setting it off again along with a muffled curse from its rider. "Hey!" Johnny repeated, pulling around, mindful of hooves and trail, and his own dealings with casual pranks.

He and Scott turned in tandem and Johnny recognized the boy with the shaggy hair and baggy clothes, the wire rimmed glasses, laughing so hard he choked.

Scott came down off his horse like it was on fire, ready to clap on leg irons.

"Wait a minute. I know' im from somewhere."

Scott scratched his forehead, thinking. He took a deep breath. "From the mercantile perhaps?"

"Yeah, Peter—something."

The kid had stopped laughing the minute Scott stepped out of his stirrup. His brother's voice boomed out, "Are you Peter?"

The toy in his hand was silent for the time being. He gathered himself, eyes large and frightened. "None of your business."

Johnny would have agreed, if the horses hadn't been spooked. He folded his hands on the pommel, stared impassively. The kid wouldn't have any way of knowing this was a look borrowed from his Madrid days, but now fit him like a too-big necktie. "You work at the store in town?"

He puffed up like a bird in winter. "Didn't you read the sign? You're trespassing. This is Albright land."

So the boy belonged here, but Johnny couldn't remember if Albright had any children—especially as young as this one—thirteen or fourteen, at the most. He thought of half a dozen lazy retorts to the question, none of which were gonna help the situation.

"At least he's talking, that's a start." In a wink, Scott's simmer was over. He didn't even look over at Johnny, but his mouth quirked in a little grin. "What do you have there that made the noise?"

Just as suddenly, the kid lowered his hackles and smiled Christmas-big. When he walked out of the cattails towards them Johnny dismounted for lack of anything better to do, besides, he wanted to see, too.

It was a button spinner, only bigger. Half a palm-sized piece of metal, hammered out with jagged edges all around and a piece of leather so well-worn it was shiny, tying the whole shebang together. There were some feathered markings around the two holes and along the saw spikes. Someone had taken their time with it. Johnny pulled the string taut, one end in each hand, and the familiar sound whistled forth.

Scott made a lunge for the dropped reins when his horse nickered and backed away. "Do you mind?"

"I guess not." He stopped the spinner, handed it back to the boy. "That's a nice piece."

The kid beamed bright. "My pa and I made it together. He forged the metal and showed me how to make the little marks on it."

"Are you Peter, from the mercantile then?" asked Scott.

He herded his glasses back up the bridge of his nose. "Uh-huh, I work there sometimes after school."

"Who's your father, Peter?"

"Erik Nilsen. What do you want with him?" The foreman's kid, Johnny thought, who would know the ranch inside and out.

Johnny watched Scott fight a grin at the prickle in the kid's words. "We're actually here to see Mr. Albright."

"He's not here. Went all the way to Modesto to check on some cattle while he was waiting for some news, but he should be back today on the three-fifteen." Comprehension dawned and the kid's eyes narrowed. "Are you the Lancers?"

"I'm Scott and this is my brother, Johnny."

Peter shrugged one shoulder. "I guess you'd want to talk to my Pa, then."

Peter's eyes latched on to Johnny. "You gonna say something to my Pa? About this?" Heat crept across the tips of his ears as he held up the spinner in one hand. For all he'd seen of the boy—and it wasn't much—Peter looked sharp and thin, but he'd grown taller, more sure of himself in a way Johnny never was, at least at that age.

"What do ya think? Let' im go this time?"

His suggestion surprised a small laugh out of his brother like he'd forgotten his horse had almost bucked him off. Scott took his time and stroked his chin while the boy squirmed, moving the toe of his boot through the dirt. "I suppose we can make an exception—in this case," and it came out in a heavy, Murdoch-sized aggrieved sigh.

But only Johnny heard it and knew it was all for show because the kid was already racing to the pond and his hobbled pony.

~o~o~o~

Peter led the way, not to the main house but to a much smaller clapboard cabin. Bunches of marigolds ringed the porch, a new coat of whitewash on the door. Like the spinner, someone had taken their time to make it a home.

Erik Nilsen wore an etched face that had fallen into a heavy sense of responsibility at some point in his life and never recovered. He didn't move from his spot on the porch, just motioned Peter to come stand by his side after the introductions, folded his arms and waited.

Johnny considered Scott and something inside him shivered, wondering if his brother would become the sort of person who looked like that, given time. He'd been so _ready_ to take the bull by the horns and deal with the Albright issue in Murdoch's absence.

Only the bull wasn't home, just his second.

He felt eyes on him, Nilsen was staring. Johnny swung a leg over the pommel to drop off Barranca and join Scott. It was a united front, if nothing else.

Nilsen's hand was solid, fingers tough and calloused. They were hard, working hands but they enclosed Johnny's with care. His grasp was warm and Johnny squeezed back, feeling suddenly out of place.

"We don't want to put you out," Scott began and he could tell that his brother was struck by Nilsen in some way because he was searching for words. He never had to do that.

"I'll be the judge of that, Mr. Lancer." The man's voice carried a few hints of the old world, almost musical, definitely not forgiving.

He addressed the boy, "Peter, there's some wood I've chopped around back, it needs to be stacked and the kindling brought into the house. You do it now, ya?"

Peter looked from one man to the next and hesitated, leaving only when he father gave him a small push towards the door.

"My son thinks he should run the place, but he's still a bit young for that." Nilsen had a gleam in his eye, like he was ready to tangle. "What have you got, Mr. Lancer?"

"As you might have expected, our father took the litigation from the Bar A to a higher court. We received news from him," and Scott raised it in the air like a white flag. "They've decided in Lancer's favor. The section of land your employer has tried to acquisition is ours, legally and forever."

Nilsen reacted like he'd been slapped, as if the realization of what Scott said had finally hit him.

So did Peter, who came out of the house and stood there with an open mouth. He flipped the black hair out of his eyes with one violent twitch, sending his glasses sliding down his nose. He was all legs and arms, and at the end of those arms were two balled fists.

"Pa? Is it true?"

Johnny was jarred by the vehemence of the question.

Nilsen sighed. "You've been listening at corners, Peter."

The boy's chin came up. "Is it?"

Nilsen eyed Scott as he spoke, "It's not truly official yet, but a telegram was sent and once Mr. Albright knows…."

"You're wrong," Peter said, eyes fierce. He stalked over to confront Scott. "It's not my Pa's fault.

Johnny flicked a warning to Scott but it bounced off and died in the dust. His brother straightened and pasted a grim smile on his face like a father with a spoonful of awful-tasting medicine. "You're right, Peter, it's not your father's fault. It's not anyone's fault. But the law has ruled it so. Do you understand?"

The boy's glance slid around from Scott to his pa, and Johnny noticed how one hand gripped the railing of the porch so hard his knuckles turned white.

"That's enough, Peter." Nilsen seemed to fold in upon himself as he pulled out a beaten pocket watch. His shoulders contracted, and Johnny knew a hit when he saw one. He looked at Scott and figured his puzzled expression just about fit his own.

"It's almost time to meet the stage, ya? I've hooked up the new mare as he wanted, and shined the carriage but I need you to meet Mr. Albright because I have to take care of a few things here."

The kid swallowed. He wouldn't refuse the order, not after he'd said his piece. He wanted to, raised his chin a little higher and met his father's stare. He was difficult to read right now, masking.

"And, son, make sure to take your horse, you know how Mr. Albright likes to drive his own carriage."

The boy nodded and the hand that was holding on to the railing relaxed a little, finally dropped to his side and he left at a jog to the barn.

Scott turned to Nilsen. "What's going on?"

In the warm light, the lines on his face seemed to have been applied with paint. Gray eyes blinked round and his mouth was clamped shut, worried. "When did your father send the telegram?" he demanded.

Scott sent Johnny a worried look all of his own. "It arrived yesterday."

Nilsen was frightened, Johnny knew that right away, could tell from the concentration he was putting into his hands, outlining one vein then another with his thumb. He paused between fingers and looked up. "Do you know much about Mr. Albright?"

Johnny spoke, "We've never dealt with the man. Other than finding one of our men in jail and signs on our property."

Nilsen had the good sense to look embarrassed.

"He makes the rules here at the Bar A, of course it's his prerogative as owner, but there is a big book filled with them. As his foreman, I wrote out the paperwork for that section of land in contention. It didn't go through as expected, and it's my poor showing because it wasn't good enough. I'll need to pack up our things and be off the ranch within the hour after he finds out." Nilsen held still for a moment, looked towards the barn. "It's been our home for almost two years. Peter…" and his hand raised, looking at them as though he was expecting either Scott or him to finish the sentence, to understand.

Johnny did. He understood. So he finished that sentence, and was told more: how Peter was doing so well in school, how he had made friends, had even started working in the store from time to time and was proud of the trust he had earned from the mercantile owner.

Nilsen paused when his son came out of the barn and tied his saddled horse to the back of the carriage. He climbed onto the seat and sent the mare walking. She sidestepped and twitched in the harness before settling down, Peter handling her with care. He didn't look back.

Scott shoved the telegram into his front pocket and blinked hard. Johnny knew that look, that blink. He wasn't going anywhere until he figured out what to do.

"What if my brother and I ride to town and talk with Albright?"

It wasn't what Johnny was expecting. And neither was Nilsen, if the raised eyebrows were any indication.

~o~o~o~

Leaving Nilsen to his packing, and what Johnny thought were some paper thin hopes, he and Scott left for Green River. He was aware that his brother was holding back, yet didn't know why. Forcing the ride to town—and he understood the why's of it, just not the what's—then riding ahead so Johnny would stop asking questions. It worked for the first mile.

Johnny kneed Barranca closer. "Can you tell me something?"

"What's that?"

"Why were you all so fired up to talk to Albright this morning?" and he saw some of Scott's shiny confidence slip a little.

"That little piece of land," Scott gestured out wide to his left with a spans of yellow glove, and it could've meant Lancer, the mountains, or California, "is ours."

"And?"

"And the law agrees. This one time, Johnny, one time," he stabbed the air with his finger, "it was done in a civilized manner through the courts, without anyone getting hurt. Just a few signs, an overnight stay in jail for a cowboy who couldn't read, and a piece of cut wire."

"You wanted to make sure Albright knew before anythin' could happen."

"Yes."

Scott shifted in the saddle, drawing Johnny's attention. Where he hoarded all the sunny days, the sudden rides to the lake, or stealthy adventures in town, his brother was different. Not empty, but it took a long time to fill him up. Being Scott, everything needed to have careful thought, as though he could check off what got in and what was left over, like a store owner with an inventory of goods.

It struck him: Scott didn't leave. He might have had a hard time lettin' go of those fancy suits, and bigger problems trying to figure out the West to fit in, but he didn't leave.

Johnny suddenly understood something about his brother that had escaped him, because the telegram in Scott's pocket was a small link to Lancer, almost like he'd tethered himself to the land. Maybe it was Lancer itself. Life back east hadn't been so easy after all, apparently. That big Boston house and all its belongings were weighed against _home_ and had been found wanting.

As much as he knew what was written plainly on Scott's face, Johnny knew that something like it was on his own face from time to time. He thought about what had been traded and what was gained or lost. What was said and done, and what was still in motion. Lancer and Murdoch bein' at the heart of it.

"I know," Johnny said after a while. Scott gave the barest of nods.

He pulled out his gold watch, the one Murdoch had given him so many months ago—and wasn't that a tether of sorts—and squinted with the sun. "The stage is almost due, we'd better get a leg up." But they both understood the stage was never on time so they didn't hurry, only rode in companionable silence until the first clapboard houses of Green River came into view.

Peter and the gleaming black carriage stood out among the boxes and passengers waiting at the stage depot.

As soon as they tied off their horses, a loud voice called out. It belonged to Malcolm, the granary owner. He waved a yellow piece of paper in the air and Scott mumbled something about last month's bill before walking over.

Johnny looked at Peter. He was slumped on the depot's steps, quiet in that still way a cat went when it saw a sudden movement in the bushes. Was something, really, that quiet intensity. The same look he had when confronting his pa at the Bar A.

Johnny shook his head. He'd once seen a picture hanging in the hallway of a Texas brothel. It was a man, naked as you please, with wings on his shoes and hat. If you had to travel, that'd be the way to do it. In the air as free as a bird. But this travelling, all this _moving on_ , well, it always meant something else. Never freedom. Never home. It brought back a shiver as cold as a desert night.

 _He dropped the bag on the table, it was heavy, full of good oranges from the mission (not stolen) and a book from the padre that was old and ripped and written in English, but still held Johnny's interest because of the man on the front. He was dressed in a fur coat with an odd little hat and carried two magnificent rifles. His name was funny, too, how it curled off his tongue: Robinson Crusoe._

 _It was past four o' clock, the promise from Senor Alvarez to ride his new pony calling Johnny's name. The day was grey outside, like it had been all week, the_ _equipatas_ _making everything chilly and the alleyways muddy. The wood pile was low and Johnny walked around with his borrowed coat on most of the time. It was some winter._

 _He slid his finger down the crack in the bedroom door and peered in. Mama was a dark lump on the bed. Johnny looked over his shoulder to where she made the meals. He poured a glass of water and decided he could at least get dinner together. He was almost used to being hungry, but they'd rationed the left-over beef scraps and a small bowl of beans and he thought now was as good a time as any to eat. And then? Off to ride the blackest pony Johnny had ever seen._

 _A knock rattled what was left of the window pane and he startled. No! Not Ramirez, slapping and yelling, wanting his rent money, and wanting it now._

 _But the knock was too soft to be the landlord._

 _He looked out the window and saw Pablo running away, a laughing grin splitting his face in two. Johnny couldn't stop his own laugh._

 _He turned around and mama stood there, her favored red shawl wrapped around her shoulders._

" _Juanito, sit down. We need to talk."_

 _He sat and clamped his hands between his knees as she walked across the room to the small fireplace._

 _Mama took a long breath and looked into the cold hearth. "I want you to listen to me."_

 _He knew what was going to happen from the tone of her voice. His stomach dropped as time stalled. A rush of blood thundered in his ears. He raised his head. "We're leaving?" Like San Diego, Rosarito and Yuma._

" _Sonora is a fine town, I think it will do us good to get out of here and get a fresh start."_

" _You mean, do you good! I like it here!"_

" _This is for the best, mi hijo."_

" _No, I'll live with Pablo."_

 _Mama drew her shawl closer around her neck, coughed into her hand. "I know he's important to you, but you'll make new friends, they might even have a school."_

 _He glared at, her wishing she would disappear like a puff of smoke up the chimney._

 _The muscles in her jaw tightened. "Don't look at me like that."_

 _Johnny took a deep breath. Shook his head instead of crying, which was exactly what he felt like doing. But he was the man of the house, and that was unacceptable._

It was funny what he hung onto all these years: never riding that coal-black pony and mama in bed, dying, not more than two weeks after they moved.

A whip cracked and the three-fifteen jolted into town.

As soon as the kid slid his glance to the stagecoach, Johnny saw something in his round green eyes shift to…Johnny didn't know what it was, not exactly. The hands curled around the boy's knees were steady. He looked at Peter and saw him, really saw him, and wasn't ready for what he found.

Scott came out of the granary, wagging his head and stuffing whatever bill Malcolm had given him into his pocket. He joined Johnny at the depot and they watched the passengers disembark.

The first two allowed themselves to be helped down by the red-faced porter. Half a minute went by and they heard Albright before seeing him, yelling for his bag to be brought around pronto. Tall and spare, he stepped out and surveyed the town as if he owned it. Then he fixed Peter with a lizard-stare.

"Nilsen sent a boy to meet me?" asked Albright, heat coming out in a husky voice.

Peter took it and looked away, sweat beading on his temples.

That was the moment when Scott found his anger and shouldered Johnny out of the way as he went past, face set in a grimace, the very same from breakfast a million years ago. Cringe-worthy, like it had fallen to him to fix things that had been going wrong for the last twenty years.

"Albright," Scott said, sharp as broken glass.

"Who are you?"

"I'm Scott Lancer."

"So Murdoch is sending his whelp to speak for him?"

Ignoring the insult, he plowed on, "Speaking of my father, he sent a telegram from San Francisco."

"I don't want to see anything of yours."

"Oh, but I think you do. It's in regards to the piece of property on the eastern side of Lancer," Scott had said it softly, but unyielding for all that.

Albright pulled up like horse at the gate.

"Although the litigation was well-written by your foreman, the courts have ruled in Lancer's favor. You have no rightful claim. Let me reiterate, this came about through no fault of Mr. Nilsen, but the court has made its decision."

Looking up, Albright stared at Scott as though his brother had swung out his big fist and hit him. The fight for the land was over before it had even begun. Albright's mouth opened, then shut and he shook his head, but not before Johnny read what was in his expressive eyes. Betrayal.

He stalked to the carriage and yelled at Peter to mount.

Scott stood on the boardwalk with his hands held loosely by his side, all the blood rushing to his face, looking dangerous. Johnny caught up to him, held him back with a grip more forceful than he'd planned.

"Hey, c'mon. Let's get a drink."

Scott pulled away, tense, but willing. Willingness was half the battle as far as his brother was concerned and Johnny was able to herd him across the street.

They'd only gotten into the saloon and settled at a table with their first drink before a shout on the street rose up, "Sheriff! There's been an accident!"

~o~o~o~

The smell of violence was hot, in the same way Maria's posada soup was, filling each nostril.

Peter's face was milk white, freckles peppered on underneath his glasses. Eyes so big and so wild and he didn't say a word, just sat at the side of the road in the dirt.

Scott and Val bypassed the spinning carriage wheel and tipped over the side of the embankment. Their footsteps hurried down the rocky terrain, jumping from rock to rock, sliding down the last little bit so that they came Albright's side. Johnny leaned over the rim, watching, sweat streaking down his face. He saw the shake of his brother's head and Val's nod as they looked over the body.

Scott's face dipped to the ground, then up again, light catching his eyes at an angle so they shone like glass. His whole demeanor from town had changed when they reached the accident site, had fallen into a collapsed heap, as though a pile of dirt dumped from the back of a wagon had just settled into where it was supposed to go. He looked spent, in that awful sunlight, with Albright's blood drying on his hand.

He turned when Nilsen thundered up on a lathered horse.

Peter's expression was...Johnny thought maybe 'hardened' was the right word, but that wasn't it, because the kid was scared. He could almost smell it. His heart thudded, because he could see what was in the kid's eyes, could put a name to it even though he was a man of few words.

A huge fear clawed its way up Johnny's throat, because he knew. He wanted to shake the boy's arm and ask, but he already knew. The law was a feather against the weight Peter carried and Johnny recognized the imbalance, even if he didn't know the details. But after seeing the kid push the leather cord into his pocket, didn't he know after all? An unsettled buzzing sound, an already tetchy horse spooked, the carriage driven into the ditch, its driver broken and twisted.

Ever since that time in Sonora, he'd learned quick enough to see the forest and to see the trees. The sun was stifling by the ditch and he let his questions go, amazed that something like the hot air between him and an overturned carriage could become a wall.

He stood in silence as Val and Scott made their way back up to the road.

Val spoke with Nilsen in a hushed voice. "Nothin' to do for it now. An accident, pure and simple. Albright left a big legacy but didn't have any kin that I know of. I'll send out the inquiries in the mornin', but there's somethin' I gotta ask." He tapped Nilsen on the shoulder and the man finally looked away from his boy, maybe thinking it could have been Peter in the ditch just as easy as Albright.

"Can you keep on runnin' the operations at the Bar A until somethin' comes through? It'll be months, mebbe a year or more, to get it all figured out."

It made Johnny uneasy to watch Val, because the law was such a big thing. The right and the wrong, where justice was stuck in the middle somewhere, or way out to the left.

He wished he never saw the look on the boy's face.

"Is there something else?" Scott said, his voice rough and raw, the first words he'd uttered since coming out of the ditch.

Judging him with those soft eyes, looking like there was something afoot and Johnny held all the cards. Standing there with his hands on his hips, as open as a daisy in high summer. The day had been so long after Scott had decided to talk to Albright about the land. And Johnny was frayed, felt his seams picked, threads loose.

Scott cared, and it made him more miserable than before, knowing that. He cared way too much when it involved kids, had an ease around them that defied Johnny's notions of being raised by a bitter old abuelo.

"Well?" Scott's voice was harsh this time, reminding Johnny of their father. Val popped his head up, bushy eyebrows coming together in question.

Clamping his jaw shut seemed the only way to deal with it, because it was too late in the afternoon. Too late for a lot of things. Then he looked at Peter and the way he hunched into himself when Nilsen dropped his arm around the kid's shoulders and pulled him close.

"No, there ain't nothin' else."

The End

11/2014


	49. For the Love of Betty

Warnings. None. A story about nickels and notions. :D

For the Love of Betty

There was a commotion in The Spider. It couldn't have been called a fight, because in Green River that wasn't novel enough to call a patron's attention away from their drink. No, something else had the new bartender concerned. Scott looked around his brother to see.

"Look at' em. Just look at 'em," Win Carbe said, and set off immediate alarms in Johnny's defense system. His eyebrows crooked together and the look of concern deepened at the way Win pronounced 'just', with equal parts indignation and resignation.

Two revelers stomped their way towards them, veering off at the last minute. Their voices reached the saloon's rafters in slur as they laughed over a vulgar joke of two Texans and a pair of sheep.

Crisis averted, Johnny tugged his hat down. "They're drunk, Win. That's all."

"I don't care about' em being drunk. Hell, half the saloon's three sheets already and it's not even five o'clock. Laverty's Bar L just finished a drive." He grabbed a dubious-looking bar rag. "But if I had a nickel for every time a drink was spilled, I'd be a rich man."

"You two hold it right there," Win commanded, startling them with his harsh voice. "Don't move."

"Well, looky here," said one of the drunks. "Someone's been sittin' in the parlor one too many times."

"I mean it," Win shouted and hustled over to the offending spillage on the mahogany counter. With a deft right hand it disappeared into the rag.

"Yeah, try this on for size," said the second drunk, laughing as he started to tip his glass.

"Jesus, Wyatt, don't spill it on purpose. You got any money for more?"

"No I don't and that's a real fact, Jimmy." Wyatt considered, then brightened. "But I know someone who does." He tossed back his whiskey. "Let's go find Quinn."

Jimmy smiled wide. "I'm on it like burrs to a cinch."

Wyatt pushed away from the bar and caught his partner's arm just as he was executing a fancy spin. Together, they bumped and stumbled out the batwing doors.

"What's got you so particular all of a sudden?"

Win's eyes narrowed at Johnny's question. "What, a man can't be clean?"

Johnny shrugged. "When we were in here a couple of weeks ago, you were spillin' drinks along with the drunks is all. What's going on?"

"I ain't no roustabout anymore, Johnny. This bartender job is steady like, with regular pay. Now that I'm a part of the establishment, I hate to see good liquor going to waste."

Jonny nudged Scott's elbow with his own. "Oh, come on. Religion or a woman?"

Win pinked about the neck. "It ain't no religion." He leaned his elbows on the bar. "Boys, they say love can change the world."

Scott laughed. "Who is this lady who has you so enamored?"

"What?"

"Who is she?"

Win reached down below the bar and pulled out a tintype set in a fancy brass frame. "This is my Betty."

Scott's grin vanished. The substantial, dimpled Venus, clad in what could only be described as a diaphanous white gown had a demure come-hither smile under a crown of carefully woven daisies. He knew that smile. Oh yes, he did. Only the flowers of choice had been roses.

The brittle-blond giant was part bouncer for the Spider, or had been anyway. She also bounced along horizontally after hours, but at a different pay scale. Come to think of it, Scott hadn't seen her in any capacity for over a month.

Johnny looked thoughtful as he studied the picture, tapping it in that slow way he had when looking at two of a kind but needing a full house. He raise an eyebrow and cocked his head to the stairs.

Win's face darkened. One hand hovered, then he snatched the picture back.

Scott cut him off. "She's _beautiful_ **,** and therefore to be wooed. She is a _woman_ , therefore to be won."

"Say, you aren't thinking about stepping in on my territory are you?"

He could feel himself blanch. "No! It's a quote by William Shakespeare." At Win's blank look, he continued, "From Henry VI?"

Johnny and Win stared at him. "Never mind."

"You gonna set up housekeepin'?" Straight to the point as always, was Johnny.

"I didn't want to see the parson so soon, but things are different now."

"Yeah? How?"

"She said 'yes'." Win's eyes took on a dreamy look. "I have to raise some capital first, though. A gal like that needs to keep her style."

At the end of the bar, Asa Gardner, the granary operator, was heard reiterating the rule about wet corn on the scale—that is, it was strictly forbidden. His voice took on a none-too-subtle quaver that could easily escalate to shouting. As he addressed the general yet uninterested populace, the beer in his glass swished and slopped over the rim.

"Just one nickel, that'd do it." A slow smile poked its way across Win's face. "One nickel for every drink spilled and Betty and me would be set."

Silent wasn't exactly the word to describe their wait, given that there were all manners of men, and a few women, carousing around them. But Scott didn't like it when Johnny was quiet. He preferred a running narrative. It was soothing, like the rumbling of a slick wagon wheel.

"If I were Win, I'd aim a bit higher than a nickel," he prodded, trying to get a rise.

Johnny didn't even look at him, turned his empty tequila glass around in his hands. Artful, a magician's trick to show off dexterity. "You got any money?"

"Not on me."

Johnny pushed his glass to the opposite edge of the bar and let his fingers rest. "Well, that makes two of us."

"I can't imagine he'd take it anyway." The bartender weeded through a handful of bills that Asa waved at him, selected one and pushed the others back into the man's hand. "Honesty and pride are bothersome traits in a place filled with opportunity."

"So." Scott didn't make it a question, knew better than that. "Are we leaving?"

Halfway home, Johnny turned in the saddle and stretched out one arm, slightly provocative, partly inviting. "Win would be rich if he really had a nickel for every spill."

"What are you talking about?"

"It's, uh…I just feel like helping' im."

Scott slowed his horse to a hoof dragging amble. "You've been with Betty, haven't you?"

Johnny's brow crumpled. "What? No." He stretched the 'no' out, and it hit three or four different tones.

Scott was onto something. He remembered that Saturday night—or rather Sunday morning—Johnny had awoken him by leaning against the wall to take off his boots. It wasn't so much the muffled scratching against plaster or the jingle of dropped spurs, but Johnny was humming an out of key version of 'Clementine'. Must have been a month ago at least, when Murdoch was in Modesto. "I didn't know your talents extended to daisy chains."

Johnny pretended like he didn't know what Scott was talking about, but there'd been a twitch, his eyes had flicked to the side for one telling second.

Scott grimaced and held up his hands like he was crestfallen. His feigned disappointment was in direct proportion to his secret glee. But he'd be damned, because helping Win Carbe win the hand of the bountiful Betty was as firmly entrenched in Scott's mind as it was in Johnny's.

A preposterous idea formed, one that he pushed away because of the sheer frivolity, but it hopped back into his thoughts with amazing alacrity. Scott sidled his horse up to Barranca. "All right, let's talk setup and expenses."

"Hold up, are we goin' for liquor or beer?"

Now that was a question. "Liquor?"

Johnny nodded. "Seems about right, but we'd be in competition with old man Trujillo. Unless we gave him a cut of the profits to not make any this year."

The savvy farmer supplemented his income after harvest by using dried corn to make whiskey. And he sold to the Spider. Everyone knew it, but Scott had forgotten about him. "What profits? We haven't even discussed initial investments. Let's see, last time I looked, corn is about forty cents per bushel. Wheat is a dollar."

"We'll need barrels."

"At twenty-five cents per barrel. How many?"

"How do you know how much a barrel costs? And I don't know how many."

"Who did the books last month, brother? The ranch has several." He watched a notion form in Johnny's head so obvious he might as well been talking aloud. "And no, I don't think we should involve Lancer in any part of this."

"Seems to me, we already are."

Touché. They'd go with two barrels to start.

"Where's he gonna do all this? Shouldn't that be part of the set-up?" Johnny shifted in his saddle. "Win takes a room over at the Widow Hargis's boarding house. There's no way she'll let him keep whiskey there."

At least not without sharing in the profits, thought Scott. "It's not like he could set up in the saloon, he'll have to build or rent a place. A one room cabin, perhaps."

"With lumber and work, it'd be about a hundred and fifty even. Plus the land, which isn't added in. Rent'd go cheaper, ten to fifteen a month."

"We'll go with rent. The only other thing I can think of are the glasses—say they're about two cents per glass."

It was quiet for a few moments as they both digested the bits of information. "Win's gonna need some help and if it ain't us—and Murdoch doesn't need to breathe down our necks any more than he does already—then it's gotta be somebody else," Johnny said.

"You're right, he'll need someone to drink the liquor in the first place then someone to mop up the spills. Assuming Win will be pouring, of course."

"Hey, Scott, maybe two someones need to drink. More drinks equals more spills equals more nickels."

"We'd have to pay the drinkers. Probably. Though Wyatt and Jimmy would be cheap, and they seemed relatively eager."

"So where are we to start this thing up?"

"Assuming we have one spill per six seconds…"

"Why six seconds?"

"The math is easier. That makes it ten spills per hour and ninety spills per workday at five cents per spill."

"That's four dollars and fifty cents. Double it with Wyatt and Jimmy both, and it's nine dollars a day. Or almost three thousand a year, give or take."

"That would be a nice nest egg for Betty and Win, if the bride and groom can wait a year." And if Wyatt and Jimmy somehow managed to survive.

Johnny whistled through his teeth. "That Betty is some woman."

"I've never seen anyone more erotic. I watched a burlesque show in Illinois once that didn't hold a candle."

"Wait a minute." Johnny jabbed an accusing finger at Scott's chest. "You been out walking in the garden yourself."

Scott didn't understand. And then, did.

"Oh, that," he murmured. Scott shrugged like he didn't know, but Johnny's eyes narrowed.

"Those were your roses, then?"

He could feel his lips thin out. Of course they were his flowers. And now his brother knew, too.

Johnny was half out of his saddle, weeping with laughter.

He had to raise his voice to be heard. "As I was about to say, three thousand dollars would be the net income. The total profits per spill would have to be figured with the cost of the total process."

Johnny sobered. "I guess Win wouldn't be rich after all."

He thought about Betty, one last, mind-searing time. "No, not rich, but at least he'd be able to afford his own flowers."

The End

7/27/2014


	50. Christmas Comes to Butler's Crossing

**Wow, this is a relic! Thanks to RK4SL, who unearthed it for me. The premise for this story comes from the short story by Bret Harte entitled, "How Santa Claus Came to Simpson's Bar". (And thanks go to Lacy for the beta so long ago.)

Christmas Comes to Butler's Crossing

The blond-haired man was cold and wet, as he limped along leading his horse. Rain hurtled down with unrelenting fierceness onto his soiled winter coat and water droplets pelted his unprotected face and head. The horse was in no better shape, for it too had a definitive hitch in its gait as it wearily followed its owner. They had been trying a shortcut to get back to home and hearth on this auspicious eve, where a newly found father and brother awaited, but man and horse had come to an unceremonious parting of the ways after the animal had gone down in a quagmire of deep mud. He was, in usual circumstance, a very handy rider, but nonetheless had been tossed aside by the horse like so much cordwood, and pitched head over foot into a ditch hidden within the darkness. They had eventually been reunited, amid much cursing and flailing of both limbs and hooves, only to find themselves well and goodly lost on the impossible trail that led up from Ironton.

The tiniest of illuminations shined through a break in the fir trees, and like a lighthouse beacon to a capsizing boat, it drew both man and animal to its glow. Something lay up ahead that promised both warmth and shelter. Sensing a change in fortune, the beast eagerly nudged its owner's shoulder with a heavy, wet nose. Acquiescing to the insistent butt of his mount's head, the man led it through the trees and downpour to the small, welcoming beam of light.

An odd assortment of occupants from Butler's Crossing had gathered together in Jonesy's small store this rainy night. To call it a store would have been kind, for it was actually an amalgamation of dry goods, meeting room and saloon. Jonesy, the proud owner of said establishment was thin and wiry with a consumptive cough that shook his bony shoulders from time to time. His apron ties wrapped not once but thrice around his scant frame as he sparingly poured out drinks for those bodies haphazardly arranged around his sputtering pot-bellied stove.

Nestled amongst several bolts of cloth was Parson, a grizzled man with half-glasses perched on the end of his bulbous red nose. Parson, who never met a glass of whiskey he couldn't drink, was not exactly a man of the cloth in the liturgical way but did have a peculiar propensity for spouting the scripture when drunk. And he had been speaking in the biblical sense fairly frequently as the calendar page turned towards the New Year.

One-Eyed Mike sat off to the right; his fat fingers folded around a tumbler perched on the top of his ample belly, all smacking lips and smiles while he savored the last vestiges of corn whiskey in his glass and nipped a cracker or two from the barrel beside him. Those close to him knew that it had been an errant piece of stone, thrown from a flume, which had cost him his eyesight. An old rumor in the town related a different tale, that Mike had lost his eye in a shootout with a desperado intent on robbing his claim. The latter story and the black patch he wore made him a rakish figure amongst the spare populace of Butler's Crossing, so he insisted on perpetuating the myth.

The door to the shanty burst open and Hardesty or "Old Paw" as some were prone to call him, stepped over the threshold and into the rather gloomy affair. Hardesty had come west many years ago to find his bonanza and instead wound up at the Crossing, poor as a beggar but rich beyond compare.

"Shet the damned door, Hardesty!" growled Jonesy. "Yer lettin' in the wet!"

"Sorry, fellers. Mariah is kickin' up the rain somethin' fierce tonight."

One-Eyed Mike roused from his slouch against the straining chair seat and heaved himself up to turn back the filmy grey curtain from the window. "Ain't she jist though? Ain't fit for man nor beast with all thet rain and sech. I vouchsafe thet it'll be snow afore too long. Hear tell they had a ragin' blizzard up at Black Butte last week."

Parson raised a hand, "The Good Book says, 'I will send you rain in its season, and the ground will yield its crops and the trees of the field their fruit.'"

Jonesy slapped his hand down on the counter. "First, there ain't no need to start runnin' the gospel mill in here and second, it seems like He could have done a bit more plannin' on when and where to send the rain." And thus began the Great Debate amongst them, for these chosen sons of Butler's Crossing had only a few topics of discourse most nights, speculation on where the next gold strike would occur and the two types of weather found in the Crossing-wet and dry.

Hardesty interrupted the cacophony of voices. "Fellers, what I came down here for was, well you know it's Christmas tomorra so thet makes it Christmas Eve tonite. Well I was thinkin'…"

Once more the door slammed open with the wind and bounced against the wall. All three heads swiveled to take in the lone, bedraggled figure silhouetted against the rain.

"Shet the door!"

The stranger hastily complied with the order and braced himself against the astonished looks from the patrons of the store.

Jonesy tipped a chin towards the stranger and began with his usual diplomacy. "Who're you?"

The stranger looked from one man to the next and shifted his weight in mud-encased boots. "My name is Lancer, Scott Lancer. My horse… "

"Mister, jist waltz yer plug on over to Jonesy's barn next door," the jovial One-Eyed Mike proffered. "Ain't no lock on it, jist throw'im over in the empty stall to the right. Don't go left or you'll be messin' in Bess' territory and Gawd knows we don't want thet struggle tonight. You savvy?"

The stranger's eyes clouded with confusion for just a moment then he nodded and turned around to enter the elements once again. His bruised, sore animal was bedded down in the snug livery and soon he retired back to the store and assailed its occupants. "That other horse in the barn, what kind…?"

"Ain't from around here, huh Pard?" Mike broke in and asked as a way of greeting.

"No, my family and I live down by Morro Coyyo."

"City boy, huh? Thet Morro Coyyo down in the valley? Wal, I don't care too much fer cities, people are so close, cain't hear youself think. Here, set down near the stove and take a load off. What'er ya doin' way up here. Are ya lost?"

"In a way, I came up from Ironton on a shortcut. I was trying to get home a little quicker."

Jonesy gave the man a glass of whiskey. "You came up from Ironton? Boy, don't thet beat all! I'd spect you'd a made it except for the damned rain and mud! Bet it seems like thet shortcut ain't no shortcut right about now."

Scott looked into his glass and shook his head in affirmation as he settled his lean frame closer to the fire. The voices ebbed and flowed around the difficulties of bad weather in winter and of dubious shortcuts through the mountain.

Finally finding a lag in the conversation, Hardesty looked around at the men gathered by the stove and started in once more. "Fellers, what I wanted to say was, seein' as how tonight's Christmas Eve and sech, I want to invite you over fer a little party."

Silence reigned over the small group and then a chorus of "Sure" and "You bet" rang out from the regulars. Scott Lancer was slapped on the back in turn, "C'mon Pard, yer invited, too."

As they made their way to the door, a desperate question was raised by Jonesy. "Hey, wait jist a minnit, Hardesty. Does widder Lavina know about this?"

The group halted immediately at the door and looked to Hardesty for confirmation. The widow Lavina, a big-boned gal from Pennsylvania, had been a catalogue woman whose husband had died in a mining accident a year ago. Lavina, being made of stern stuff, had elected to stay on at Butler's Crossing taking in odd jobs, and cooking for Hardesty fell into that category. Widowhood had been a freeing experience for Lavina and she had gained a reputation for speaking her mind both vociferously and coarsely. It was with a full measure of trepidation that the question was asked in the first place.

Hardesty hedged, "Wal shore enuf boys, it don't make no matter who I bring to my own house, now does it?"

Full agreement to that statement came from all corners save the young man. Being new, he thought to hold his vote on the matter. So it occurred that the men, full of hard whiskey and easy bravado, started off towards Hardesty's cabin through the pounding rain to celebrate Christmas Eve.

Reaching the cabin, its door sprang open and within the dim golden light from the fireplace stood a slight brown-haired girl. The barefoot child was dressed in a too-big flannel shirt that hung down well past her knees and she clutched a worn blanket about her thin shoulders. Nettie had come into Old Paw's life two years ago when she had been four and her parents, wide-eyed settlers, had tried to make it to the coast, never figuring on a scourge of yellow fever running through the camp. She had clung to Old Paw for survival as if they were natural kin and they had been together ever since. Currently, the grubbiness of her face accentuated an almost scornful look as she surveyed the men in front of her.

She cried out, "Old Paw! Where have you been?"

"Aw now, Nettie! Why I jist invited some of the boys over fer thet party and got hung up a little." Quieter still he asked, "Where's Lavina?"

Before that youngster could squeak an answer, a resounding crash from the kitchen garnered everyone's attention. "Now Lavina…! You fellers make youselves ta home. Nettie, show'em in." Hardesty rushed in ahead to allay the storm.

Each man took off his hat and slapped it against thighs or hands save the stranger, who having lost his headgear earlier along the trail, inclined his head ever so slightly at the girl and smiled. Nettie did as instructed and showed the men in to the austere two-room cabin. Prodigious preparations had been made for the party. The wobbly table in front of them contained dried huckleberries along with a large parcel of smoked fish and a smaller one of dried beef. Jonesy had thoughtfully brought along a bottle and he thumped it down loudly next to the foodstuffs. Nettie pointed to a shelf up above the laden table, "Thar's biscuits up in that tin, but ya might have ta shake'em a little to chase out the weevils."

Presently, loud voices from the other room plus a slamming of the back door necessitated a look towards the kitchen. Hardesty returned to the group, a sheepish smile on his countenance. "Looks like Lavina had other plans for the evenin'."

The brave souls from the Crossing heaved a collective sigh of relief and sat down around the table. A pack of cards was soon produced and the festivities began in earnest.

After a few rounds were played and the drinks and food portioned out, Nettie reached out a tiny hand and slipped it into Hardesty's calloused one. "Old Paw, I got a question for you."

"Wal, shore thing, darlin' but lets get you to bed fust off," and Old Paw led the girl to a cot placed behind a thin, patched curtain of bed sheets.

Nettie, being a wise child and not one to take "no" for an answer cornered her adopted father. "I want to ask you somethin' about Christmas."

The inhabitants of that ramshackle cabin did their best not to pay attention to anything coming from beyond that simple door, but it was an impossible feat and eventually every last man turned an ear to the conversation.

"I know all about that one," she interrupted Old Paw, giving her hand an imperious wave. Parson told me all about Him. I want to know about the other one, called Santy Claus. Lavina told me he comes tonight, too."

As one, the audience in the anteroom leaned in to hear the answer, cards in hands forgotten.

"Ah, Nettie-girl…uh, shore he comes tonight, too."

"Old Paw, will Santy Claus come here tonight?" The little voice was so yearning!

Caught unawares by the wonder emanating from that small mouth, the voice that answered was tremulous at best and caught in the throat of the speaker. "Wal, shore he will. Won't he fellers?" Pulling aside the curtain, he looked to the congregation for support.

The men immediately fell back to their places; all eyes were downcast except for the stranger. He was the only one who met Hardesty's gaze and a curious light came into his eyes, making them a smoky blue in the lantern-lit cabin.

Hardesty hastily dropped the sheet. "Now hush girl, you go on and get to sleep and let your Old Paw talk with his friends."

There was a scramble for the door when Hardesty came around the curtain, faint remorse embedded across his wizened features. Jonesy made it to the door first. "Have to lock up the store, thanks fer the party," was the paltry excuse.

One-Eyed Mike was next, "Have to get home to the Missus." No one but Hardesty knew that the "missus" had run off with another "mister" over a month ago.

And the last coward out the door was Parson, a fleeting "God Bless" mumbled on his way out of the cabin.

Scott Lancer still sat at the decrepit table, all the while intently staring at the patched sheeting to the makeshift bedroom. "Do you have a horse I can borrow?" he asked very quietly.

Old Paw swung his head up, hope flashing in those rheumy eyes. "Shore do and she's as solid as any. But where're you plannin' on goin'?"

"Ironton."

"Son, you know that it's over forty miles there and back."

"Then I'd better get started."

Man and beast eyed each other balefully in Jonesy's darkened stable. Bess. Such an innocuous name for a horse, and it belied not only the big animal's immense strength but its capriciousness as well, for the horse was already starting to paw the dirt and blow through her nostrils at the stranger standing in the barn. Remembering what Hardesty had related to him so helpfully back at the cabin, "And can she jump…Gawd, but she can jump!" Scott took the words at face value and thought of them as perhaps a warning rather than a proclamation of the horse's better qualities. He took a long, hard look at the roving, wild eyes of Bess, gathered the reins and his courage, then leapt aboard the saddle.

Bess did some fair leaping of her own at the same time, for the man had not quite gained his seat when he found himself and the horse both airborne. Once all four hooves had hit the ground and the rider had been slammed back to the saddle, the beast took off at a rush down the rutted street that divided Butler's Crossing.

It had finally stopped raining as the duo hurtled towards Ironton through the sloppy mess that made up the trail. Winking stars peeked out from behind the storm clouds and the bright moon seemingly bid his self-appointed mission good portent.

And he flew over the mountain, fighting the unruly Bess with every foot of ground covered. The horse understood urgency but not necessarily direction and it took dogged determination from the rider to keep the animal aimed to the right path. It was at a low point, just when he started to question the sanity of beginning this midnight ride, did he spot the fluttering lights of Ironton.

Onward he galloped into town, seesawing reins until the horse came to a complete and utter stop. Head down and blowing hard, Bess had been tamed at last. The man landed heavily to the ground, legs fairly shaking with the effort of keeping upright, for in truth, he was just as done in as his horse. Gamely, he looked around and found the general store dark and closed up tight. Hope plummeted, but he was not a man to be trifled with after such a rugged ride and he pounded on the door with a great fist until a light was seen from within.

The sleepy, irate owner threw open the door in a fit of pique. The sight on his doorstep had him stepping back and reaching for a shotgun but his hand was stayed by the earnest light in the stranger's eyes and a hasty explanation of his all-important undertaking. Items were quickly purchased and placed in a burlap sack; the most important package of all was wrapped in oilskin. The shopkeeper looked on as the man vaulted upon his horse and turned northward, then shook his head in wonderment as he snapped the door shut and pinched out the light.

Clouds had covered the moon again and snow was in the air, coldness nipped at the man's face and gloved hands. He pushed the horse harder on through the pass and then it happened that the great Bess took a misstep and floundered briefly on the treacherous trail. Spooked by the sudden loss of ground beneath her hooves, she bunched her haunches and jumped. Scott clung to the matted neck and mud-slick saddle but at last began an inexorable slide off the back of the horse. His precious cargo, for that is what it had become, was flung amongst the thrashing hooves and sucking mire.

The horse finally reached solid ground and stood, sides heaving from the effort. She stamped impatiently, chewed on the bit and blew great white clouds from snorting nostrils while looking down at the man on the ground beside her. Scott was thoughtful as he regained his own footing and quickly retrieved the sullied parcel. He shakily sought out the reins and looked up briefly to the darkened heavens for support before mounting just one time more.

Thin streaks of daybreak broke through the horizon as soft, fat snowflakes floated to the ground. Butler's Crossing had been reached!

A soft rap brought Hardesty to the door. Old Paw beheld the young man standing on his porch, looking mud splattered and wobbly. The pouch was brought forth and opened to reveal a few brightly-colored but, alas, crumpled and dirtied trinkets. Oh, how cruel to have ridden so long for this!

Then the other package was remembered, the one that had been carefully tucked away into a saddlebag. Hardesty unwrapped the oilskin and withdrew a stuffed bear; the kind of toy a little girl may have yearned for but never received. Old Paw looked in surprise at the man before him and turned to retreat to the bedside of that little miss.

"No! Don't wake her!" exclaimed Scott. "Just put it on the table for when she gets up. Tell her it's from…Santy Claus."

Hardesty smiled then, the tears glistening at his eyes threatened to dampen his nightshirt. He hugged the bear to his chest and pumped the stranger's hand. Christmas had truly come to Butler's Crossing.

The End

Dec '07


	51. Good Man Feelin' Bad

Good Man Feelin' Bad: A tag for The Black McGloins

"The blues ain't nothing but a good man feelin' bad." ~Leon Redbone

Silver coins rattled in Scott's hand, dull and tarnished like everything else about him, the kitchen stuffy from the combination of closed windows and morning sunlight. He'd gotten up later than usual, an indulgence he rarely took and one rarely tolerated by ranch work. And, so far, he'd made it to the kitchen. In truth, he meandered, but in all fairness it was a straight meander, mostly because he was thinking. He tossed the coins into a chipped blue-flowered bowl, watched them swirl for a bit in their noise to settle at the bottom. He could make coffee, just pretend like it didn't matter. But he didn't feel like coffee, wasn't needing it.

He licked his lips experimentally, and his mouth blossomed with a fleeting taste of Moira. Sweet, mixing with the smell of new hay.

He didn't sit, couldn't, roamed the periphery of the room, fingers testing the texture of the rough adobe covering seams where walls had been spliced together, felt the grain of the long table, finding pits and unhealed scratches. With every pass of a window, he heard voices, and his gaze darted outside.

Yellow light peered out from under the kitchen door. He swung it open. Pungent marigolds poured into the kitchen pulling him outside like gravity.

Beyond the portico at the garden, Ricardo and Gabriel, Isidro's sons, argued back and forth. A mound of good black dirt lay in the middle of the plot amongst the new season's eager weeds. Two forgotten shovels lay crisscrossed against the stone wall.

He could sweat, clear the tangle.

Stepping out onto the porch, he waved off the two young brothers to more manly work with their father. They left at a trot with Gabriel looking back over his shoulder, eyebrows pulled together in question.

The heft of the shovel felt solid in his grip. Gave him release to attack the most offensive of the weeds. The rhythm of the work was a distraction until the first tendril of sweat made its way down his back. He stripped off his shirt and hacked steadily away.

When he had most cleared away to stubble, he plunged the sharp edge of the shovel into the ground severing roots. He bent down and grabbed one of them, yanked, pulling a straight diagonal line down the row.

The thunk of metal hitting dirt sending sharp spikes to his elbow should have satisfied him. This day last week, he'd found a few under-things dotting the banks of the lake, had gone down to the water. Watched. She'd shrieked, he could still remember her laughter. He also remembered her pounce in the barn, eyes darkening when he kissed the back of her damp neck.

A little breeze brought in the blunt smell of horses and cows from the corral, mixed with junipers, giving him a chill.

He drove his shovel into the earth, turned the soil over and over. Shoveled and turned, hoping to fill the hollow. Where was she now? He wanted to do what was right. That's what men like him did. Should he go looking for her?

Scott pulled his shirt on. What was he supposed to do, ride into the woods, calling for her like a lost dog? She hardly looked at him when they'd said goodbye.

He brushed at the dirt on his thigh. There was a spark between them, they both knew it, and he'd felt needed, somewhere else other than Lancer. He ran his hand over the back of his head. But what if he'd been wrong to think she needed him? He spun in the garden, looking to the bright lemon of sun, the green junipers, the glaring white of the arch across the courtyard, a useless scarecrow twisting in the field.

He stopped, sighted the watering trough and pump.

The soap was a hard scrap of lye that hardly lathered. He tried not to think where the soap had been, who and what it had washed up. He scrubbed hard and wished he could somehow just stop feeling anything.

The End

6/22/2013


	52. City Boy

City Boy

"Hey there City Boy, where ya travelling?"

The hundreds of miles from east to west could be marked in lessening degrees of salutations. Until finally, at this outpost, came City Boy. Was it a portent of things to come?

"There won't be any profanity on the stage," the driver announced, settling one thick-heeled boot on the wooden hub of the front left wheel. "If you got opinions, keep' em to yourself. If you gotta chew tobacco, don't spit it on the floor. And there will be no profanity because there is a child on board. We'll be making stops at Cicero, Auburn, Dunn's Hill and Morro Coyo. Watch your step getting up." He shoved his hat forward and, with flourish, hopped into the box seat to gather great chunks of reins.

We made the turn out of Desperate Springs on two wheels and a prayer and headed west into a cloudless morning.

There weren't many people on the stage. My book and I were sitting beside one of the windows (thank God), while across the aisle was a fat little man in cheap, worn-out clothes and the boy, traveling alone, hair parted neatly in the middle and wet combed into place over each ear. A piece of white paper was pinned to his shirt pocket denoting his final destination. As it happened, I was going to the same.

It was one of those early spring mornings that held promise, but kept it close. Would it stay cool, making the winter linger, or turn warm to start the summer? The Pinkerton card in my wallet made me feel the same way. Like a talisman, it held promise but offered no hints of what to come.

The first stop was downtown Cicero—downtown was a term loosely applied—and only one passenger embarked onto the stage: a tired-looking woman with a shiny opal brooch at her throat.

The lady arranged her skirts to straighten out the wrinkles and turned to me and said, "I've been to Cicero to attend the funeral of my brother's wife." Before I had time to overcome my surprise and remark on that singularly personal bit of news, the driver cracked his whip.

We slipped out of town on a plume of dust going west.

"You sell stuff?" the boy asked the fat little man.

"Sell stuff?" asked the man. "What do you mean sell stuff?" He threw himself into a rhythmic convulsion of finger snapping, tapping and pointing. "I am a purveyor of all goods found under a mercantile roof and without. In fact, my legs are made of tin, my arms good cotton tic. You cut me and you know what you'll find?"

The boy's eyes rounded. "Blood?"

"A stream of gumdrops and horehound!"

"My mama told me she was gonna bring me some lemon drops from the store, but she never came back," said the boy.

"I see an open shelf and I just have to fill it. Lanterns, bags of beans, bolts of cloth, it doesn't matter what. I can't help it. I'm a maestro."

We rode along for a while without talking, rocking past squats of brown land filled with scrub from the drought, and every now and then a homestead with a crippled chimney tilting on its axis. The town of Auburn came and went—a closed-up hamlet of two dogs, trash in the street and a boardwalk. Only one passenger boarded, a religious man complete with Capuchin head cap.

He began to read from a small bible, advising us on how to live a noble, clean life. One scrap of words for each day of the year. The fat man across from us slumped in his seat with his suit coat rucked up under his arms, gazing out the window.

The countryside flattened out into miles of ranch land and pines. Even the priest's droning quieted down to fervent whispers as the sun shone in through the open window. It seemed as if the late afternoon was riding along with us, and would last forever.

The lady finished pulling out the loose threads from her cloth handbag and said to me, "You may be wondering about my brooch."

If indeed I had—and I hadn't—I certainly would not have said anything. City Boys do not brook those type of conversations lightly.

The little boy said, "My Pa told her she didn't need to go to town, we had green beans canned from last years, peaches, too. Even a side of beef in the smoker. Everythin' we needed, right there."

The drummer filled in the awkward pause. "Did you know I can take two bits and turn them into a quarter? When you're a maestro, you take pride in your profession. Stocking shelves is my profession, all right."

"My grandma already has a big blue dish on her shelf," said the little boy. "She don't need to go to town."

The Capuchin monk mumbled a sing-song chant of prayer.

"My Pa said she left 'cause she got tired. They had a big old bed, though. She could of laid down anytime."

"There's no room to be tired! Everyday there's new challenges. You gotta meet' em head on. Yessir, no room to be tired. Not at all," said the fat man.

"You may be wondering about my brooch," said the lady again, this time to general populace of the stage.

"Every day is a new day to sell. Early birds and worms," said the drummer. "It's almost too easy, like baiting the clearing then shooting the bear."

"My Pa hardly ever goes shooting. He just plows the wheat fields."

"You see," said the lady, "my brother's wife was one for finery."

The stage came to a jerking stop. A man with a battered saddle, shirt halfway unbuttoned and a rather deadly-looking pistol at his hip stood to the side. He struck a pose with his legs spread. No City Boy there.

"You goin' to Morro Coyo?"

"Unless I'm lost," said the driver.

He flung his gun and saddle up to the driver.

"Watch it, son," warned the driver and the man swaggered aboard, bounced off my lap into his seat.

"You an Injun?" asked the boy.

The newest passenger thought over his answer with solemnity. "No."

We paused at an abandoned shack with a rusty metal windmill casting some hot shade to water the horses. "Dunn's Hill!" shouted the driver. He cranked the door open and looked at each of us as if checking to see we were still there. "Fifteen minutes. Better stretch your legs."

Sweat dampened my shirt, trickling down my back. The newest passenger stared at me from his perch beside the windmill, a curious smile on his face. It broadened and went from mere curiosity into speculation. Offering no apologies for either my mode of dress or my existence, and going against a lifetime of tutelage, I stared back. He tipped his head and looked away.

The fifteen minutes had soon expired and we loaded into the stage. The lady unclasped her handbag and searched within, coming out with fistful of handkerchief filled with lavender candies.

"You all help yourselves," she said. To me, she whispered, "It's leftover from the funeral, but we won't tell them that. It's still good candy."

She took the biggest piece and set it in the palm of the boy. "You eat this now, even though I'm sure your grandma will have supper for you in Moro Coyyo. It won't spoil a thing."

She carefully squared away the corners of her handkerchief and folded it twice. "Ear bobs, necklaces, rings, why my brother's wife would buy anything she saw in the store window. More than anyone could wear at one time."

"I wanted to be a lawyer," said the fat man. "I was ambitious, could speak well. But I did one thing wrong. I went to California. Place is lousy with lawyers."

"My grandma says there's a word for what my mama is, but she won't tell me."

"In fact, you could say it was the finery that killed her," said the lady. She stuffed the handkerchief back into her bag.

The newest passenger looked at the candy held between his two fingers, then his eyes flicked from one passenger to another, finally landing on my book. As a westerner, he was oddly silent. Yet he managed to communicate his derision quite thoroughly and the heat crept up my neck. It was, after all, too large of a book to be carried cross country.

"She fell trying to get her jewelry box down from the top shelf in her closet. Broke her neck when she hit the floor, finery all around her. My brother found her like that, head twisted to one side, laying there in that pool of stars and moons."

"What's your mama's name?" asked the newest passenger in a soft drawl.

The monk marked his place in his bible with a red velvet ribbon and closed it in his lap.

"Her name's Ann, but they call her Sweet Annie."

"My brother just couldn't get it off his mind. He'd go out on to the porch at night and see the same stars and moon he saw around his wife. He'd stand there and cry like a baby."

"I get around," said the fat man. "It's for my job. I bet I'll run into your mama one day."

"Pa said she was tired. That's why she left."

"I couldn't stand to see him like that, so the night before the funeral I gathered up all her jewelry and marched down to the mercantile. Found out that most were just paste. All except this brooch."

The little boy piped up in earnest. "She'll be wearing a blue dress, it's the only one she ever wore."

"I'll know her by that dress, then," said the newest passenger.

"They call her Sweet Annie."

"And when I see her I'm gonna tell her I rode the stage with you. And how we sat here talkin' and eatin' candy. You want me to tell her anything else?"

"Just tell her I said hey."

The newest passenger looked at the boy for a long while, as if trying to make his mind up about something.

We all sat in silence, or what passed for silence, finishing our lavender candy thinking about mothers and blue dresses and love and stars and moons.

The monk opened up his book again. "Fear nothing that you are about to suffer. Dismiss your dread and your fears!"

Soon the driver was yelling to the horses.

There was horse and wagon traffic in Moro Coyyo, people crossing the street, meeting the stage. Everyone sat still, even the fat man had his back against the seat. The monk had closed his eyes, clutching his bible.

But there was some confusion at the depot. A mean-faced woman with thin lips swept open the door, grabbed the boy by the forearm and bustled him off the stage.

"Grandma, see him?" The little boy pointed to the newest passenger. "See him? He might meet my mama one day."

The old woman glared over her shoulder. "I do not have time for this foolishness."

Another religious man, this one wearing a collar, came to meet the lady. But the man stared with disgust at the brooch fastened to her neckline. His arms flopped at her in irritation. "What in the world is that, Emma? Fakery or finery? Both? You shall not choose worldly goods to rise above others."

The fat man stepped over to where an aproned man was sweeping out the front of the mercantile. "Hello friend! What do you need today?" But he didn't get a single glance from the sweeper.

Last out of the stage, the talisman burning a hole in my wallet, I retrieved my derby from the seat. Someone from my father's ranch was supposed to meet me here. Not for the first time, I wondered what I was doing, deep down I wasn't as sure as when I left the city. Yet I wasn't afraid, only that I was in the middle of something I'd be better out of.

The newest passenger lingered by the stage, accepting his gun and saddle back from the driver, mocking grin firmly entrenched.

A fresh-faced young lady approached the depot. She looked puzzled for a moment, glancing between the two of us, then shrugged. "Mr. Lancer?" We both turned and answered.

Oh, no. Surely there was some mistake.

The End

8/15/2013; 10/2014


	53. Time Flies

*Done for a challenge at Lancer Writers many years ago.

Tempus Fugit (Time Flies)

Rousted out by the sharp clang of metal against hardened steel had a bewildering effect upon him. Scott sat bolt upright and saw Tad Wilkins, the Colonel's aide, running towards him, but what the boy was screaming made no sense. Frowning, he rubbed his eyes then fell back to his bedroll when Tad disappeared. He looked up at the sky, but didn't see the stars. Instead, there was a familiar train station with banners, carriages and horses.

People were shouting and laughing. Merry girls who giggled and threw their arms around the departing soldiers, kissing them where they stood. Dark blue uniforms and bright boots, kepis angled to give the men a rakish one-eyed appearance. He was almost salivating with anticipation.

Smiling girls giving kisses and shiny boots.

By the time he figured out how to keep a shine on issue boots, he was ankle deep in Mississippi red mud. But by then a shine wasn't so important anymore. And the kisses mere memories.

His eyes closed and the uniforms faded, along with the train station. Tempus fugit, he mused. They had been gone for almost seven years, but never really stayed too far away. In some perverse action, he never told Grandfather of his deliberate considerations regarding a military career.

Or his decision to come to Lancer.

He opened his eyes and looked into the awe-inspiring face of the camp cook. Deep-brown pock-marked cheeks, and a full quivering mustache. Jeff held up his pot and struck it a second time with the spoon, a wretched grin spreading across his face as he went to his next victim.

The End

2012?


	54. Seeking Shelter in the Storm

Another drabble, possibly from 2011 or 2012, based on 'The Escape'.

Seeking Shelter in the Storm

They had been treating him with kid gloves for a few weeks now and he was getting sick of it. After his shoulder had healed, he thought things would get back to normal but they were still treating him as an invalid and worse yet, someone to feel sorry for. Even Johnny would send surreptitious glances his way now and then. A question on his lips but never said aloud. And Murdoch was the worst, where Johnny may have had questions, Murdoch had frank pity.

He supposed they were giving him room after the fiasco with Dan Cassidy  
had nearly left him dead.

He remembered standing on the portico the day the Cassidys left, a mindless smile on his face, waving and promising Dan that they `would get together someday'. Memories that he had endeavored to keep pushed far, far down were slowly being dredged up within him.

He hadn't felt guilt over the botched escape attempt, not at first. Living through the punishment was uppermost in those harrowing days right after it, but later, in the middle of a particularly squalid night, the guilt came. After the beatings had taken place and he had time to think, he had felt the black tendrils of it, pushing into his brain. Now Dan's condemnation of him, especially after all these  
years, had cut to the core and laid open those thoughts he had tried so  
desperately to get rid of.

 _Why had he survived?_

The End


	55. Surprise!

Surprise!

Johnny shook his head when Murdoch yelled again.

In hindsight, ordering him a surprise gift after a night of drinking wasn't the best plan. Next time they should skip the sultry barroom madam, even if she was young, Scottish and knew all the words to _Highland Widow's Lament._ Murdoch just didn't see the fun of having her show up at the house. They would have to choose somethin' better next time. But Johnny was willing to bet this birthday of Murdoch's would be the most interesting he ever had.

At least he talked Scott out of the pen set.


	56. Her

Written in response to a challenge at Wiplash Too, using 'attraction'. From 2007.

Her

Scott walked into the kitchen, slightly rumpled and bleary-eyed. He sat down in the chair across from Johnny and Murdoch. Their father was reading the latest mail, trying to catch up on what he had missed from the week before.

Taking one look at Scott, Johnny snickered and murmured under his breath, "Brother, are you are up early or is it late?" He uttered a short expletive as a booted foot from under the table barked his shin. Scott raised an eyebrow, defying Johnny to say anything more. Johnny took the hint and ducked his head, his estimation of Scott's whereabouts all night had been right on target.

Ah yes, the delectable daughter of one, Henry McAllister, Scott mused. He wasn't exactly on speaking terms with the father-yet-but the daughter was another matter altogether. It was imperative that he get some time off to be alone with her.

With a wisp of a smile on his face, Scott faintly heard his name being called. Frantically, he tried to think of what was being said. Coming up with a blank slate he said the only thing that popped into his head, "Yes, sir!"

Johnny choked on his coffee and snorted out loud.

Murdoch peered over the top of the letter in his hand. "Good it's all settled then, Johnny you stay here to finish the fencing, and Scott you can leave for Modesto this afternoon."

The End

2007


	57. Tag for The Lawman

**Tag for: _The Lawman_**

It was obvious he wasn't going to ride alone five feet, let alone five miles. Obvious to him anyway. The thought of Murdoch actually carrying him sent a cackle through his brain which in turn sent shards of pain behind each eye and to the rather large knot behind his right ear. So he needed to get beyond his present situation and get the job done, because Barker had just become a liability. Or maybe he had been all along.

At least he and Johnny had seen him that way. Murdoch, not so much. Perhaps. Hard to say. Scott couldn't read minds, after all.

Don't think about it, he told himself. Don't think about any of it. They would just get back to the ranch, and put it all behind them.

Scott felt his father's eyes on him, and so he tried to straighten, tried to be all right, just tried to _will_ himself. Damnit, he could hardly keep to his feet. Five miles through rocks and pasture to the ranch. Five miles wasn't that far, was it?

"You stay here, Scott," Murdoch said, everything an order now, "I'll take Barker and get a wagon and come back. We'll get to the hacienda. I can patch you up then."

"Sir, I can ride," Scott found himself saying, wondering where the hell those words had come from because no way in God's earth was he going to make it five miles. He'd fallen when he'd gotten up to stand, was even now leaning against Frank, trying to look like his blood hadn't run a river down the front of his shirt.

"You stay here," Murdoch repeated. "You look like you've been bear-wrestling."

For what he knew of him, Murdoch wasn't one to make jokes, so Scott assumed he must look fairly awful, would be a burden. He had blood all over him. And he really didn't want to think about why.

"Stay here," Murdoch said for a third time and Scott wasn't too sure what he meant by it, he had ears, didn't he? But Murdoch steered him by his good arm to an abandoned rock. Scott was in shadows again and he hoped Murdoch wouldn't feel how hard Scott gripped his arm as he was slowly lowered down.

"I'll be a few minutes." His voice changed, and Scott knew Murdoch was smiling. The grim smile, the one that he put on when he was trying to talk Johnny into something his brother didn't want to do. "You're safe here."

As if he was going anywhere.

But Murdoch was gone by then, and Scott leaned his head back, trying not to think. To not think about anything. It was relatively easy: not only did he have lots of practice, thinking about nothing, but his body was in rebellion, was doing its own thing quite separate from any rational thought. He didn't know what was wrong—well, apart from the bullet hole in his shoulder, hard to miss that—but he'd lost time after being shot.

The shoulder was distraction enough, was red-hot agony. Awful, just having his arm hanging there so he reached round with his right hand, laid his left forearm across his chest, held the left arm tight to his body, breath hissing between clenched teeth, holding onto the cuff of his ruined shirt as he slid down to his side, trying to take some of the weight off the injured shoulder. Frank was talking but the words just buzzed in his ears.

Murdoch took longer than a few minutes. Maybe Scott had been wrong about the distance, maybe it was more than five miles. He didn't think so. Perhaps he was misjudging the time. More likely.

Maybe Barker had another man waiting for Murdoch. Scott tried to sit up when he thought that, but nothing cooperated. He felt the creeping twilight getting into his bones now that a breeze was up and the adrenaline gone. He wiped the back of his hand across his face. Sweating, despite the chilliness of the air.

Scott amused himself by trying to remember the name of the trail he'd followed. Just an old game trail but there'd been a name. Ciervo—something? He supported his left arm again, feeling sicker than anything else.

At Lancer for less than a year and he'd already gotten shot twice. Grandfather would be horrified. He felt it then, a desperate clawing fear that had nothing—and everything—to do with Barker and the presumed partnership. He wanted to run, go fast enough to leave the thought behind. _All these years, Murdoch had never asked._ It felt like a slap, a betrayal.

Scott held very, very still then, thought and body and injury all coming together in a way that actually meant coming apart.

The familiar rumble of wheels and hooves, encompassing as a warm blanket, and his father barely braked before he got out and came at a slow trot. The unhurried forward movement of Murdoch Lancer.

Scott's vision hopscotched, kept jumping ahead, because one minute his father was beside the wagon, and then Murdoch was crouched in front of him, one hand touching Scott's face before falling on his right shoulder. Even that made Scott wince.

Murdoch helped him to sit, took his left sleeve and slid it across Scott's chest pinning it with one of his shirt buttons, taking off some of the weight. _What was he? Some sort of frontier doctor?_

"Here," Murdoch said, opening Scott's clenched right hand, pushing something round into it. "Take a drink. It'll be a few miles before we reach the ranch. You lay down in the back." The smile again and Scott lifted the canteen unquestioningly to his lips, but his mouth was dry. He moved his tongue around, trying to work up spit enough to swallow.

And drifting, because the next thing he knew, his father—and the canteen—was gone.

Murdoch was clearing out the wagon bed, shoving a used saddle and hay rakes to the side, grousing mildly about the mess the hands had left the wagon. Finally, he was back and Scott knew from the look on his face that his father wasn't looking forward to the next bit.

"Can you stand?" Murdoch asked, but it was no question, because he was already gripping Scott under the armpit, hauling him up and for the life of him, he couldn't stop the shout of pain that caused. Half-dragged to the wagon, drifting and now he was laying in the back, bad shoulder braced against a rolled-up saddle blanket.

The next thing he saw were early twilight stars sweeping rhythmically across the sky. Murdoch was humming something under his breath, and Scott thought maybe he was going to melt into the wooden boards. Wondered if he was getting blood everywhere, but couldn't actually move to check.

Then Murdoch was silent and the trail was smooth. Scott didn't think about much of anything for a while.

~o~o~o~

"Scott."

Murdoch let down the back of the wagon and his son looked blearily around in the wan light from the house. Two or three hours maybe, since the injury. Long enough for the blood loss to set in, or any number of secondary problems, given the huge knot behind Scott's ear. "You need to get up."

"All right," Scott agreed, but didn't move.

Didn't ask for help, either.

"How is he?"

Murdoch whipped around at the disembodied voice, soft but urgent in the asking. _Johnny_. Only then did he realize the utter chaos going on around him. Voices shouting from the guardhouse.

"He'll be better in the house. Where's Barker?"

"Right where you put' im. There was a scuffle after you left." John's bruised hand was across his mouth, and he rubbed his stubble once, dropped it back to his side.

Murdoch continued to look at Johnny, feeling an ache that had everything to do with shootings and posses. Johnny took it in, then asked, all quiet and respectful, "Barker do this to Scott?"

"Evans, not Barker."

"But Barker played a hand, didn't he?"

That tone, accusatory. "Do you have something to say?" Murdoch asked, back up. The deal that was offered, that was hammered out just a year ago, pounded at the door.

Johnny sighed, turned half away, breath pluming out in the night air. Murdoch was forced to think about the future with his two sons. Johnny took two steps away, wanting nothing more than to leave him right there.

Murdoch was sure of it.

He turned and buried his fists into the fabric of Scott's shirt. Grudgingly moved aside when Johnny joined him. They pulled Scott half out of the wagon and Murdoch got his shoulder under his and together they made it into the house without sounding like a fox was in the henhouse making a mess of things. But then he wouldn't have expected anything else. Scott was a quiet man—for however short a time he'd known his son.

He stripped the bed down to the basics, and while Scott was still nominally upright, Murdoch took off his son's shirt, threw it to the chair and in some sort of macabre dance dumped him on the bed. It made him kind of queasy, looking at that shoulder. He was about to call out when Johnny arrived with towels and whiskey.

"Teresa's bringin' up a pitcher of water and some bindings. I sent Cipriano for Sam."

The first-name basis was telling. It hadn't been too long since Johnny was abed. Murdoch nodded and turned up the lamp by the bedside. "Light the one by his chair and bring it over."

There was no point in putting it off.

"Hey," he tried, but it came out scratchy. Now that the shirt was off, Murdoch noticed a big wet-looking bruise on top of the shoulder, a vivid purple and black. Damn. He must have hit it falling off his horse. Maybe it saved him from crushing his skull on a rock, yes, but at a price. It looked out of joint. Scott was lying very still, looking at him from beneath heavy lids, gaze swimming.

"Mur—." Slurred, almost sleepy. "Bad?"

Murdoch scratched his unshaven face and mustered up a smile that usually fooled no one. "I think you'll be just fine. But I'm going to need to put that shoulder right. And dig out the bullet."

"Uh-huh. Thought so." A little smile, but too forced. Not scared, but not looking forward to it, either. He glanced over his shoulder. "Johnny, see what's holding Teresa up with that water."

Murdoch was alone with Scott for the first time since the shooting, and he'd done it more to get Johnny away than to make conversation with Scott, because what the hell was he going to say?

So he looked at his hands, mentally turned the wedding band round and round his finger that hadn't been worn for twenty-four years.

Scott cleared his throat a little, unable to bear silences with equanimity. "It was no accident." It was like his elder, to speak his mind, Murdoch knew, trying to anticipate where his father's mind was at.

But Scott didn't know, couldn't.

"Barker…well, I'm not sure he had it all planned out to what happened, but he was the instigator."

"Johnny was right after all."

He didn't know what Scott meant by that, only knew his son's eyes were closed.

"I got him out of the guardhouse as soon as I could," Murdoch continued quietly, because he wanted Scott to know.

"Should've never been in there." The words were garbled; his son was in enough pain and this was no time to be having this conversation because Scott wasn't going to remember any of it.

Scott looked at Murdoch through half-closed eyes and he had a bullet still in his mangled shoulder and was trying to have it make sense and damn it all if that wasn't all on Murdoch, all of it.

Murdoch looked away. Better that Scott stay angry for a while; it would help. Because anger was better than despair.

He had cause to know about that.

Scott wasn't finished. "Didn't trust Barker…you should have…" Trying to find the right words, maybe trying to find the truth.

Murdoch waited for him to ask, because Scott was a smart boy; he knew what it meant when the deal with Barker had been made for part of Lancer.

When he didn't continue, Murdoch dragged his eyes up, imagined the judgment he'd see on his son's face.

Scott's eyes were closed again.

That was one way of avoiding the conversation.

Of avoiding him.

Murdoch rolled up a towel, placing it as gently as he could under Scott's left armpit. "Here," he said, retrieving the whiskey Johnny had poured into a chipped cornflower blue cup. It had come from a set Catherine brought into the marriage. "You'll need this." A cup that lived in a box with bandages, scissors, an empty laudanum bottle and splints. Such were their lives, but it didn't really bear thinking about too much.

Scott swallowed without complaint—when did he ever complain about anything?—and Murdoch kicked off his boot, bringing one socked foot up and got a grip on Scott's left wrist. Shoulder first then bullet wound. And if there was a God, Sam would be here in time for that job. Scott's back muscles would probably be locked tight from trying to support that arm, from moving around.

One moment, like a break in a relentless rainstorm, came clarity, when it wasn't just a set of injuries on an anonymous cowboy. This was his son.

He was tempted to take the blue cornflower cup and drink what was left. Thought that, braced his foot against the towel balled up under Scott's armpit and pulled his son's arm slowly, surely, waiting for things to fall back into place.

~o~o~o~

Too much pain for anything approaching a decent sleep. Scott tried to roll over, but that hurt too, so he just stared at the ceiling until he could make out a few old water stains lacing the adobe, the noise from outside muffled in the heavy curtains.

Thirsty. God, he was thirsty.

His whole left arm and shoulder were agony, so Scott looked around, saw the bottle of laudanum that Dr. Jenkins must have left because the Lancer one had a different label and had been empty since Johnny's soiree with Pardee. But beside it sat a glass of water. A thick book of some sort—he couldn't make out the title. A teaspoon. His red neckerchief wound in a tight ball.

No Murdoch, though. Scott rubbed his eyelids with the tips of his fingers, tried to figure things out. All this would have been extremely thoughtful and convenient if he didn't have to piss like a horse. Damn.

After taking care of that, he needed the laudanum, and the water, but he wished for coffee. He didn't feel all that good, upright, hurt in an odd way from the top of his head all the way to his heels, the shoulder the worst of it. Murdoch had somehow wrestled him out of his shirt, and his arm was bound tightly to his torso, immobilizing shoulder and elbow, the latter huge with bandage. Scott knew about the bullet hole, but he didn't remember actually hurting the shoulder.

He stared at the laudanum bottle. It had been a rough night, all right. But it was mid-morning the house should have been awake.

Sleep tugged him down again. He dreamt darkly of canyons and caves and something that slid between them. The loud crack, one that rent the air, was harsh and unexpected.

~o~o~o~

This was why, Murdoch thought. This was exactly why he worried and harangued and issued orders instead of pleas. He'd been trying to teach them about running a large ranch—for however short a time—not in so many words, but through his actions. Yet, they weren't boys, they were men with experiences all their own. All the more reason to try and find some common ground. He hoped that ground would be Lancer. And now it was all coming apart like an overfilled feed bag with a ripped seam. All because of what he'd done a year ago. Foolishly.

His bare feet slapped against the tile in the kitchen while he hunted for a match to light the lamp. The look on Scott's face when he left him with Frank—still upset that Johnny was in the guardhouse—was the result of pure childhood training: his eyes had dimmed. Forcing himself not to care, damning Murdoch all the same.

Given the reverse situation, Johnny would have been loud. All sinew, fast mind, fast mouth, he would have been yelling at his father right now, had he been there.

How could he protect either of them?

He padded slowly to the stove, stoked the banked embers and scraped the coffee pot to the heat. The house was quiet since Sam had left after taking the bullet out. Had it just been yesterday? The days were running together.

Another bullet, a different arm. He had wondered when he sent the Pinkerton to find Scott what, or who, the man would actually find. A dilettante enamored of society, or something else? His son fell into the second category to varying degrees. He had an awful feeling he would never be able to suss Scott out completely.

He didn't have any trouble when Sam dug into the shoulder. Scott as he'd never seen and probably wouldn't again. Unguarded. Angry. Loud. Clearly out of his head from the whiskey or laudanum, but the ramblings held so much truth it made Murdoch flinch.

Nothing was hidden: no blame, no indictment, only luminous disbelief. One long moment, and Scott tried to shut it down, but he couldn't put the mask back on; it was so obvious to the both of them. He turned his head into the pillow, not wanting his father to see the struggle. Or not wanting to see his father.

And Murdoch had looked away, not knowing which it was.

He licked his thumb and tested the heat of the coffeepot with a satisfying sizzle. As he reached for his cup, a howl came from the upstairs bedroom.

Murdoch jumped, mind not quick enough to determine what the sound was. Then his mind caught up.

It was his heart that didn't.

~o~o~o~

"Scott!" came a shout beside his ear. He'd woken up sweating and shaking. Light streamed into his eyes from the bedside lamp.

"Johnny?" he mumbled, mouth cottony.

He pushed his brother's hand away, tried to sit up but couldn't quite manage it. The drapes were closed, and no light paled behind them. He peered at the clock on the bureau: four-thirty in the morning. Wide awake.

Johnny rubbed a hand over his eyes. "I guess Murdoch got the quiet hours." He looked around, grabbed the glass from the bedside table and took a swig before handing it to Scott, who tipped it back after only a moment's hesitation. It actually tasted pretty good, all things considered.

"You should get some…" Scott gestured to the door, but his brother was already pacing around the room.

"Nah, I'm good," he said, watching Scott finish the water. He blinked once and grinned. "The guardhouse had a real good bed, considerin'."

"Considering the door was locked shut?" Scott grimaced. The dream…it all had to do with Barker and his visit. Didn't take a genius to figure it out.

Johnny chuckled. "I shoulda danced, huh? But I got out when Murdoch came back with Barker trailing along like a whipped pup. All hell broke loose. He started throwin' out orders left and right. Said you'd been shot and Evans was dead. He can be real loud when he wants to."

Scott shifted, found a comfortable spot with his shoulder halfway on a pillow. "Sounds like he might have been worried."

His brother was silent, lips pursed. He shook his head so slightly Scott could barely see it, let alone decipher what it meant. "About a lot of things."

The shake this time was definite. "He tried to talk me into runnin' for Mexico."

Scott's mouth compressed into a thin line, despite his best efforts not to. Maybe Johnny noticed because he looked away.

"Murdoch, came in and sat right down and asked me about it. Told me it was my decision. But…" His voice faltered. He'd been looking at Scott, an earnest expression on his face, obviously trying to make him understand and at the same time trying to allay Scott's fears. It wasn't working. Now he looked away. "That's when I said I'd thought about it already and the answer was no."

Scott could recognize what colored Johnny's words and it made him ache. He waited.

Johnny rubbed his face again. "Oh, you know. Hate to lose a third of all this, after working so hard to get here." He cackled at his own joke.

Scott managed to not roll his eyes. Barely. "There is that."

"Just so you know, Murdoch went white when Sam worked on you. Only I don't think it had to do with the surgery."

"What happened?"

"You can be pretty loud yourself, brother. Using them fancy words and all. They cut down a man quicker than anything."

Inwardly, he groaned. "What did I say?"

"You don't remember?"

Scott shook his head.

"I only got in on the tail end of things, but you were tellin' Murdoch he should have asked."

Asked? He didn't understand what that meant…until he did.

"Got up in his face and all. I thought the old man was gonna have a heart attack tryin' to shush ya."

"I was out of my head."

"Sure, sure. But it had to come from somewhere, right?"

"What are you getting at, brother?"

"Just that I saw your face when Murdoch mentioned the deal about Lancer and Barker. You weren't lookin' too happy."

"And I seem to recall you walked out."

"You're more polite than I am."

"It rankles, Johnny. Giving that man a part of Lancer. When we were…"

"Yeah. Where were we a year ago, anyway? I was down in Sonora coolin' my heels where no one could find me and you were back east." He rolled back on his heels. "Oh."

"Yes. Oh."

"It's not like Barker's gonna get anything now except prison time, Scott. Maybe Murdoch thought we'd never come here. I sure as hell wasn't makin' my way north any time soon." He narrowed his eyes. "I figure you coulda been here anytime, too."

Heading west after the telegram, Scott had been almost—almost—grateful for Pardee, because it gave him a reason to be at Lancer, to figure out what gates were open, and which were closed. Barker's deal with Murdoch changed that somehow. "You're taking his side?"

"No, but sitting in that guardhouse gave me some time to think."

"To think about what?" They both turned to the doorway, startled into silence.

Murdoch watched him and Johnny with dark eyes, arms folded across a stained shirt that had seen much too wear recently, serious as, well, serious as a bullet to the chest. Scott's breath caught. His father hadn't shaved in a few days, hair flattened from his hat that Scott could still see on the seat of the big chair by the window where it had been thrown. He wondered how long Murdoch had been outside the door.

The deal with Barker came flooding back. His own words about staying at Lancer burned in his throat. He was angry, and that's not what he wanted, not what was needed, and not how you talked to Murdoch Lancer.

"Whew," Murdoch said, eyebrows lifting, but altering his stance just a little, so that Scott knew he was listening, knew he meant business. "Why don't you tell me what's on your mind, son?"

Scott cursed softly under his breath.

Johnny shifted, grinned on his way to the door.

"Hold on, John. Stay put. We need to get a few things straightened out."

Murdoch told them some more history between him and Barker, bare bones, and Scott nodded. There were things left out, but he knew it all had to do with how his father felt about things, so that was all right as far as he was concerned.

"Joe Barker saved my life once, when I had gotten injured."

"How injured?" Scott asked. He glanced at Johnny, who had pushed his way past their father to sit on the end of the bed so he could look at Murdoch.

Murdoch made a face and angled away, right hand resting on his chin.

"Enough," he said, and he might have been talking about anything. "It was enough to make me write out that deal."

"I'm sorry." Scott said immediately, like it had been waiting for years.

"There was never any way of you knowing," in that easy, never mind voice.

"Regardless, the deal should never have been made." Murdoch's hand came off his chin, gestured, returned. "The fact of the matter is that I need you here. The both of you."

Scott winced. "For the land, you mean."

"No. Not for the land." Murdoch peered hard at the both of them. "For me. I want my sons."

There was a silence and Scott and Johnny stared at each other, shocked maybe. Full. Too full. A lifetime of leaving and coming back and why it happened that way. It was too much, for the both of them.

Scott looked away first, as he often did. He tried to ease himself out of bed. Johnny was by his elbow in a second. He thought he heard his brother say something, but he wasn't sure and he wasn't going to ask. Johnny took most of his weight, Scott leaning against him while the world swam before his eyes as he sat on the side of the bed.

Johnny repeated it, probably knowing Scott hadn't heard him. "You don't leave."

It sounded like a command and he had no idea if Johnny meant the room or Lancer. Either way the answer was the same. "I'm not," he replied, soft and without any thought or weight.

His brother's look was full of humor, but there was distance, too. "Old man, you don't have anythin' else in your back pocket you're not tellin' us, right?"

The silence was deep, but Scott could wait it out.

Murdoch smiled and, finally, shook his head.

The End

11/30/17


	58. The Way of Things

The Way of Things

Year ago, this saloon had two real rockin' chairs settin' out front, right under the picture window. Steam-bent oak, had a little give when you sit. Now'days they got some old barrels, rough planked and filled with whiskey to pour they say. Huh. Crackers, or pickles mebbe. No one in sound mind gonna put whiskey out front, you ask me.

Don't stop me none. I sit on 'em when I need to. Here most days. Man gets my age, and seen the things I seen? The _niños_ do you good, come watch 'em run around the plaza like fillies and colts, 'fore they known any hard hands. And maybe get a drink every now and then from those that don't mind payin'. That's where I first saw the mister. A gringo, like me. Only all dandied up. Playin' aces high like strikin' lightnin'.

Don't see them together much no more. That might be good, might be bad. Done wonderin' 'bout that. Yeah. That ain't nobody business but His. Ol' fool like me, oughta know better 'n to mess with folks.

I try, anyways.

See, you got people who don't listen, and folks that can't hear, and a world of difference betwixt the two. Hope in one and none for the other, and there ain't no changin' between.

Generally, my experience, anyhow.

The three of them, they come down the boardwalk, lookin' pretty as a picture. But it don't bring me no joy. 'Cause that little man, he be holdin' everything in him. He be holdin' all of 'em and he don't even know it. The woman got that look like the boy's gonna _solve_ somethin'.

His momma shrink back like I got whiskey on my breath, but I ain't touched none of that stuff in days. His step-daddy, he stands there with a devil-grin like he's eggin' me on to try somethin'. Like I'm _interfering_ with the fine day an all. Like why I stop 'em in broad daylight, town full of folks.

There's a time I woulda been inclined to call that man a dumb sonuvabitch, but that ain't doin' no good, so I pull myself up real tall.

Ain't stoppin' him no how is what I settle on, and he get his back up nice, and he got some hackles on him, that dog. But he ain't havin' no fightin' 'round his kin where folks can see, so he laughs and they go on. I watch 'em some, and yeah, I know how the mister uses his fists on those who can't do the same back.

But no one wants to know 'bout anythin' I got to say.

She lifts the boy up in her arms as they go, like that gonna make some difference. And he's lookin' at me over her shoulder, and sweet Lord, he's like a little angel with them blue eyes. You look at that kid, you never know. But that's the way of things sometime.

I ain't expectin' him, but he come back the next mornin'. Got a right handsome white shirt with all the pretty sewin' on the front, but he ain't got no shoes. He pick his way in and out of store fronts and I can just tell he ain't supposed to be out like that. He come down from the house behind the mercantile all his lonesome. Walkin' tight and light, like nobody see him. Holds his hands like he be pulled up by strings. Like he's really just a puppet.

He don't say nothin', but he stops and gives me a good long stare. I seen it then. He already knows somethin' about the ugliness in the world. Yeah.

He musta made her mighty angry, 'cause she's shoutin' that good Catholic name she gave him all the way from down the road. And her hands, they rough and tight 'round his skinny arms. She give him a shake, and his mouth pops open, like he wants her to see somethin' in there.

But she won't see. She's too busy looking at him, like she finally got it figured out she can't do nothin' but fail him.

He look at me again, while she's draggin' him away. And I got no face to give him but the one I got on. It just the way of things.


	59. Black

*100 word drabble

"Steady, Brother. Are you awake now?"

"Yeah."

"Thirsty?"

Johnny nodded against Scott's chest.

"Easy, there's plenty," Scott said, easing the canteen away from Johnny's greedy, paper-dry lips.

"How long? How long?"

"You've been gone a week."

"No. How long in there?"

Scott's eyes slid to the old cave. He shivered. "Twenty-seven hours."

Johnny shook with bleak laughter. "Dios. Nothin' but black. Felt like days."

" _Years_ is a better word. Ready?"

Johnny let his head fall into the crook of Scott's elbow, taking measured shallow breaths. "Not yet. Nothin' out here but air and stars. It's nice."

"All right, Johnny."

The End


	60. Black Velvet If You Please

She was thirsty. When her arm woke up, it wasn't going to feel good at all. It was warm; she was warm. The blankets weren't heavy, the down duvet light as a feather.

The bed smelled of sweat, and coffee, and sex. It was a combination that required her to do some temporal mathematics, which she didn't really want to do, but the smells were compelling, and the not knowing was becoming intolerable. She put one and one and one together in a sequence.

Then a naked male body softly spooned into her, releasing her numb left arm to come back to full restoration, and this development sent all notions of mathematics and thirst out the window, considered or not.

Black velvet…

 _Johnny had kissed the back of her damp neck, and led her to the bedroom, and they'd missed the first dance of the Green River Fall Festival and it was all right. Nearly all right. Actually, no, not all right. Because he'd argued with her father. Or rather, Father had ranted at him. The wrong color. The wrong profession. Just wrong, wrong, wrong. Father hoped for a future. That's what their kind of people did. They needed something more, to launch arrows to the future._

She blinked back the sting, as her eyes filled. Still asleep, his arm wrapped around her waist, chin resting on her wet shoulder.

No arrows. _No more_. All she wanted was black velvet, with that little boy smile.

The End

4/22/'17


	61. Ghosted

**Ghosted**

Over the years, Johnny had seen a fair amount of hotels that didn't ring quite true. Take for instance the Shady Nook; all four rooms built smack dab in the desert, a hundred miles away from any living tree. Even the cactus out front had died. Or the Rest Peaceful, located next to the tracks of the B & E, where the 3:20 shook the molars out your head every morning. So this one in Milford didn't raise any high expectations. Still, the Birdcage Hotel and Emporium sounded fancy all right. Made a man's interest perk right up.

He ambled his way along the boardwalk, dutifully following the directions given out by the livery owner and hoped Scott had gotten the room already. It was a quality place because there'd been delicately-scrolled signs pointing the way. No one took that kind of trouble for a shithole. He hoped 'emporium' was just a polite word for saloon; the long ride had left a lot of dust in his throat.

A little ways more and he came to the Birdcage, Lamps were lit all around with glowing colored panes of glass lining the front. The door was open with a hand-painted sign that said 'lobby' hanging above it.

A large stone fireplace big enough to roast a horse in took up most of a side wall, the rest covered in expensive-looking pink satin paper. Oak and stone and velvet and old cracked portraits of faces which Johnny assumed were Milford's founding fathers with a few delicious-looking females thrown in for good measure. One in particular was more than pretty; she bordered on beautiful in a wild sort of way.

He couldn't shake a feeling of familiarity, although he'd never been to this city.

A bespectacled clerk swept aside the heavy curtains and stepped behind the counter when Johnny rang the bell.

"Nice place you have here." Johnny knew he'd seen something like this before—maybe in San Francisco or San Diego. "Was this always a hotel?"

"As a matter of fact…"

There was some sort of clatter and a muffled sound that came from the second floor.

The clerk pushed his spectacles up to the bridge of his nose. "What can I do for you?"

"Lookin' for a room. Actually, my brother might have already registered us. He'd be Scott Lancer."

Wire rims fell back down the clerk's nose when his mouth gaped. "I tried tellin' your brother that we ain't got no rooms but the one." He leaned forward and Johnny smelled tobacco and chilies. "But he don't take no for an answer does he? That's a serious flaw in a man, to my way of thinkin'. Yessir, a right serious flaw."

"Look, did he leave to go someplace else?"

"There ain't rightly no other place. 'Cept maybe the stables." A loud thump sent the crystal prisms on the chandelier swinging and they both stared as splatters of light swirled about the room.

Licking his lips, the clerk adjusted his string tie like it suddenly got too tight. "I would've never let the room to your brother, but he looked real tired, eyes all droopy and what-not. He was real persuasive, too. I thought he'd sleep right through it. Even if he did have the blond hair."

"Sleep through what?" Johnny shook his head, trying to understand.

The clerk's face toggled, willing Johnny to get there without an explanation.

"You know, _things._ Of a _personal nature?_ "

"Personal…?" Johnny straightened up so fast he could feel his spine click into place. Maybe Scott wasn't that tired after all. He glanced at the ceiling, then back to the clerk. "Oh."

The clerk blinked long when something shattered from a room upstairs.

"What's the color of his hair have to do with anythin'?"

He pursed his lips and sniffed. "She does prefer the blonds."

Johnny started to say something, stopped, then started again, brow furrowed, until Scott's panicked voice rode out a stammered " _HeyheyNO_!'

The clerk twisted his involuntary bark of laughter into a polite cough. "Ah, he's in the Lilac Room, number 13. Top of the floor, turn left, all the way down on the right."

Johnny took the stairs two at a time, the clerk right behind. He found the room and knuckled the door when he found it locked. "Scott?"

The knock on the door silenced a loud scraping on the other side. Johnny waited out the pause, eyes narrowed. He was about to shoulder in the door when Scott answered, his voice loose and a little unhinged.

"Johnny, there's a…my God." His voice took on a pitched keening.

The knob rattled urgently and then the door flew open and closed abruptly, a disheveled Scott flattened against it. The smell of spring lilacs was unmistakable.

Johnny raised an eyebrow at his brother's tousled hair, the shirt hanging off his shoulder. He hadn't missed the protective hand still hovering over the crotch of his trousers either, top buttons undone.

Scott shot the clerk a wild, awe-filled look. "She said her name was Marcella. She's quite…"

The clerk twitched. "Um, right forward?"

His brother gave a tight, frantic nod.

"You got a girl in there?" Johnny shifted his weight onto one leg and cocked his head to the side. "Already? That's fast, even for you."

Scott ignored him and tucked in his shirt, slapped at Johnny's hand when he pointed to the top button of his trousers. "I wasn't of the understanding there would be company."

"I told you this would happen, but you just didn't listen," said the clerk, who seemed chipper enough despite the goings-on in his hotel.

Johnny turned his attention back to Scott. "You forgettin' somethin'?"

"What?" Scott gave him a blank, distracted look as his fingers worked at closing the buttons of his trousers.

"Your saddlebags? The money pouch from the auction? You gonna leave them in there with her?"

Scott appraised the door, shoulders sagging. "No. _You_ go get them."

"You left'em there. She's just a lady."

"No lady." His brow furrowed earnestly as he leaned forward. "That woman has very cold hands." Scott's eyebrows waggled suggestively, his blue eyes locked with Johnny's own. "I am not going back in that room."

Johnny shrugged and fingered the doorknob. Scott smiled tightly—his _whatever_ smile—and gestured with one big hand for him to go ahead.

He blinked into complete darkness, worried for about one second that he'd see her. And couldn't stop the snicker. Maybe Scott had stopped at the emporium for a stiff one before he went to the room and hadimagined it all.

He took a step in, leading with his hand until he found the bureau. His fingertips brushed against cool leather. The saddlebags. He didn't bother to look, just scooped them up, whirling around when an iciness made all the hairs on the back of his neck stand at attention.

Outside the room, safe in the hallway again, Johnny took a few gulping breaths. The smell of lilacs trailed him like a bloodhound on scent.

"So," Scott said.

"Yeah," Johnny agreed.

Scott turned to the clerk. "Who is she?"

"Well…" and the single word hit three or four notes. "Marcella's not so much a real woman; more of a…what you would call…a spirit, or a ghost," the clerk hedged.

Johnny slid a glance to Scott, who stood in the middle of the lamp-lit hallway, an expression of stunned bewilderment on his face. Spirit. Right. "Oh, c'mon."

"She was real once, but died about ten years ago. A dove who passed away in the throes of passion with what some say was her one true love. She's been hauntin' Room 13 ever since." He wore a wisp of a grin, crooked up on one side.

Scott roused himself out of his flummox, looked like he was gathering his wits as though they'd fallen out a hole in his pocket. "There's no such thing as spirits." The air started to smell like lilacs again and he snapped his mouth closed.

That shuts me up, too, thought Johnny.

The clerk peered into the room, shoving his spectacles up for a better view. He cringed when something made a squelchy noise. "Heh. She seems to be a might teased about somethin'."

Scott's eyebrows quirked together.

"Yep, she showed up about five years ago. Madder'n a wet hornet about what happened to her place. She plopped right into her old _office_ and has been there ever since. Mostly we just work around her and she leaves us alone."

"Why haven't you gotten rid of her?" Johnny asked.

The clerk put his hands on his hips. "And how would I do that little thing? Just ask her to leave? She don't mean no harm, just likes to have some fun every once in a while."

"Some fun." Scott rolled his eyes. He straightened his shirt, shivered visibly.

All three of them looked at the room when the squeaky sound of wood sliding against wood reached the hallway.

"Say, you fellas didn't move anythin' while you were in there, did you?" asked the clerk.

"Did you, Johnny? Move anything?"

He gave Scott a pointed scowl and ignored the question. "You said this wasn't always a hotel, what was it before?"

The clerk rocked back on his heels. "One of the finest cat houses in these parts, gentlemen. The Ladies Auxiliary of Milford ran them out of business after Marcella's funeral. They never figured on such a big turn-out. Grieving men everywhere. Wives couldn't get their husbands to go to work. Nearly stopped the town dead—pardon the expression—for three whole days."

Johnny took a deep breath and shoved the saddlebags into Scott's arms. "Mister, you don't get paid enough for this job."

"Oh, the pay stinks. But it don't matter."

"So why do you stay?" asked Scott.

The clerk smoothed his curly blond hair back from his forehead, but didn't say anything. Didn't need to. Just smiled.

~o~o~o~

Scott hoisted the saddlebags up on his left shoulder. "Remind me again why I'm on my way to the livery?"

"Because you're a man with a serious flaw," Johnny said.

"Only one? I think I like the direction of this conversation. But I have to ask since I may be a bit biased…what is it?"

"You don't take 'no' for an answer."

"Not always."

There was righteous indignation in that growled response, and Johnny shook his head.

Scott lifted his hat and scrabbled a hand through his hair, sending tufts of it skyward. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but this is the first time we've had to sleep in a barn on one of these trips. Jails, saloons, even a church pew on one memorable occasion, but no barns."

Johnny whistled low. "You know what? I think it is."

"What do you think of Marcella and the clerk?"

"I think he's right where he wants to be. Steppin' out with a ghost. Lucky Number 13."

Scott's head came up, eyebrow cocked, a slow smile just starting.

Johnny caught the smile and raised him a full grin. "Doesn't even have to pay for the room."

"Ah yes. But as the saying goes: What of love?"

"When a man has that available, there doesn't have to be love."

Scott scratched his neck. His eyes were soft and faraway in the thin moonlight. "What do you think Murdoch had?"

"With your mother and mine? From all he tells us—oh, that's right. He doesn't tell us anythin'. For all we know they fought like cats and dogs."

"I like to think Murdoch loved both his wives."

"No question. I'm not arguing. But, Scott? Murdoch can be…."

"Somewhat of an ass?"

Johnny nodded.

"You two have butted heads like a pair a bulls."

"Yeah, well. You've had your share of tangles, too." That temper didn't come outta nowhere, he knew it just as well as Scott did. "You got this notion that life's gotta be happy ever after?"

Scott let out a noisy breath. "I'm not some green boy."

It wasn't a fair question to ask—not with Julie hangin' 'round in his brother's past—so he tried to make amends. "But you'd like to maybe find a girl and settle down. Have a few kids?"

"Yes. At some point."

"Guess you'll need to slow down that steady path you're makin' through Green River, huh?"

"You're one to keep track? What about San Francisco?"

Johnny smacked his leg. That's where it was. He knew he'd seen something like the Birdcage before—chandelier and all—right by the wharf.

"You don't see yourself settling down with someone? Ever?"

"I never say never, Scott. But that would have to be some fine woman. I mean really something."

"Assuming a woman of this terribly high caliber will have you, would you consider it?"

"Marriage or kids?"

"Mm-hm."

"You're funny."

"No, meeting a frisky ghost is funny. Now, anyway. And cold. Don't forget cold. So what's your answer, Johnny?"

He wondered for the thousandth time what really happened between his mother and Murdoch as his fingers beat a rhythm against his holster. "Yeah, I'd consider it."

"I guess love is where you find it. Sad for Marcella, I think, to be looking for something—with considerable energy—that she lost in her real life."

"You feelin' sorry?" Johnny looked up. "For a ghost?"

The cloying scent of cut flowers suddenly filled his nostrils. Johnny straightened, raised his eyebrows. "Shit," he said, for both of them.

He sensed the shift of air as something moved, just to his left, a sweep of fabric maybe. Going straight to where his brother stood.

"There you are," a voice suddenly slid into the space between them. A smooth, sultry female voice.

Flailing like he was in a losing prize fight, Scott scrambled back. His heel caught on the edge of the boardwalk and he fell backwards, ass over teakettle into the alley next to the livery, letting out a soft grunt. The saddlebags landed at Johnny's feet, a thin silvery-something hooked on the rawhide clasp.

"Uh, fellas?"

Johnny spun around at the clerk's soft voice.

"I just wanted to make sure…. Well, I'm not accusin' you of anythin', but she gets real mad when her stuff goes missin'. Can you look again?"

"Oh." Johnny handed the locket and chain back to the clerk, avoiding eye contact with his brother. "Huh."

The clerk clapped his hands together. "Looks like the problem's solved. Thanks a lot. I'll leave ya…," he waved a hand at the livery, "to your bed and what-not."

Johnny watched the clerk's retreating back disappear out of the alley and turned to face Scott.

"On the saddlebag the whole time. Guess I picked up somethin' after all." He chuckled and took a few steps back. "How 'bout that?"

Scott angled up from the alley floor, looked down at what he'd rolled in and reached for the yellow gloves in his back pocket. He put them on one finger at a time.

"This will do nicely," he muttered as he bent to pick something up.

Johnny didn't wait around to find out what was in his hand. He took off down the alley at a run.

He didn't need any ghost to tell him it was gonna be bad.

The End

10/10/17


	62. Making Plans

***** Pre-Lancer, in which Murdoch and Paul O'Brien have a conversation about bringing Scott home. When I first wrote this I was okay with the timeline of Paul having Teresa (as a very young baby and Johnny being 2 or a little over), after consideration, I still am. Note: Has strong language.

 **Making Plans**

"Who does she think I am, Paul? A goddamned idiot?"

Murdoch threw the forgotten tally book back on the table in front of him, shaking his head.

Paul waited until the angry clacking of Maria's heels drifted away. God knows he'd seen the tells on Angel often enough: the broodiness, the traipsing off to town, and the arguments over things that— in the end— didn't mean a hill of beans. The pure _want_ in Angel's blue eyes was mirrored in Maria's brown ones.

He sighed. "You gotta fly straight, now's not the time to be goin' back east to Boston. Get your shit straightened out pronto, or you're gonna lose' er. And the boy who's here."

"Keep your voice down," Murdoch growled around the lip of his whiskey glass, glancing towards the hallway and the bedroom where Johnny had been put down for a nap.

Paul leaned forward across the kitchen table, his eyebrows meeting in consternation.

"You think she hasn't already figured what's going on? You been edgin' around gettin' Scott back since you two got hitched. You need to wake up and take a look around you, Murdoch. You got a two year old kid in there."

"And I've got another one in Boston who I want here, too."

Paul stood up, swept a hand towards the kitchen door.

"I get it, Murdoch. I do." He tapped one finger on the table. "I wouldn't be here if Angel had taken Teresa—I know that. And I know you're burnin' to get your oldest home. But Maria's here. Johnny is here. Kid's already followin' her around like the sun sets and rises on his mama. Mebbe it does, with your mind back east." He took a deep breath, remembering what Murdoch had told him in private just a few days ago. "You think Catherine would have wanted you to hare off now? When Maria said she might be pregnant again?"

Murdoch gave him a look that could have stripped whitewash. "Shut the hell up, Paul."

Paul recognized the line, stepped back from it and shook his head. He looped his fingers around the top of his own glass in front of his friend. He pointed it at Murdoch as he removed it from the table.

"And this? This isn't helping. You know that, right?"

He knew liquor was the only blunt thing Murdoch was rubbing up against. Everything else was like razors.

"I have it under control."

Paul gave him a long stare. He didn't know if Murdoch meant the drinking, or the rest of this mess. But it didn't really matter. He was wrong. Either way.

"No, you don't. If you had it under control you would've been there when we lost those couple of beeves this mornin'. I'm serious Murdoch. You walk out to the bunkhouse tomorrow smelling like the juice and well, they're startin' to talk is all. Patron or no."

Murdoch leaned back in his chair and gave him a flat stare. Tapped the bottom of his half-empty glass on the table top. Paul sensed an explosion of some kind was imminent and he suddenly didn't care. Maybe Murdoch needed to explode.

"You were talkin' about leavin' a month ago. You know what you got this month? You got a wife who may be havin' another baby and one little boy. They need you. She'd go to town on your ass if she knew you were thinkin' on it again."

Paul slapped his glass down by the sink beside the pump and it was louder than he intended. Murdoch was up out of his chair at the same time, big fist thumping the table and for a split second Paul thought they were going to have at it, right there in the kitchen. _Aw hell._ _I'm a dead man._ But then Johnny started howling down the hallway and the angry man was gone. It was Maria's husband lifting his palms to the ceiling, rolling his eyes.

"Now look, Paul. You've woken him up."

~o~o~o~

Murdoch's feet felt heavy against the hallway tread, and not just from the whiskey. Up until this week, when he and Maria had words of disastrous proportions, things had felt almost light. Not easy, but light. For a few weeks there'd been fencing to deal with, and the flooding of the western pasture. Enough mundane distractions to keep the air going in and coming out, without having to make it happen. But Scott, his _unknown son_ , had called to him ever since Harlan had taken him away. Oddly enough, when Johnny arrived, the ache had grown to fever pitch.

That was the real kicker. Since the birth of his second born, he had time and the means to bring Scott home.

And yeah, he was angry. Not exactly at Maria—but yes, at her. __

_I will be your witness. To have and to hold. Through everything._ That's what she'd said. Shiny black hair pulled tight under a white veil, eyes shimmering. Oh, he'd gotten lost in those deep brown eyes. Just…lost.

And then it wasn't anger but tears rising at the back of his throat, behind his eyes. He blinked them away. It was so damn useless.

Murdoch watched him from the doorway, hunkered down under the coverlet, one arm curled around his stuffed bear. Between Johnny's soulful keening, he could hear his own quiet s _hhhhhhhh._ And then tears were clawing their way back up his throat—useless or not—and he was a little tipsy and stupid and he didn't trust himself to speak for a while.

"Son."

Johnny bobbled up, a tiny flash of color in the wave of white of pillows, rubbing his eyes. Murdoch gathered him in his arms and paced the room, rocking the boy in his arms.

Johnny snuggled into his shoulder, sleepy and warm. "What time?"

"It's almost time for supper, young man."

"Scott come?

 _Shit._ He must have heard their late-night arguments. "What?"

"Scott come?"

"No. Not tonight. What do you know about Scott?"

Johnny gave the tiniest of shrugs. "M'bro…."

"Your brother?"

His son nodded, head bumping under Murdoch's chin. "Mine."

Johnny started crying, a sleepy grizzle. He reached around and thumbed the boy's back rhythmically until he settled. Murdoch shook his head, a little awed.

"You've got your brother all worked out, haven't you?"

The edges of Johnny's mouth hovered between a smile and uncertainty. It was enough to make Murdoch's heart hitch and he rubbed his chest absently with his free hand. That feeling behind his ribs, it wasn't a surprise anymore. He was almost getting used to the permanency of it.

The only thing that varied was the degree.

God help him, he would bring Scott home. 

The End

Feb/2018


	63. Madrid

Written for the question: 'How did Johnny come by the name Madrid?' A poem of sorts:

Madrid  
after the street salesman  
with the laughing smile  
of white teeth  
who tricked him  
out of his pesos  
Mama said  
well, put it down  
to experience  
we all get tricked  
at one time or another  
he was good at it, no?  
Johnny said, sí mamá  
and he stared at her  
saw her pretty brown eyes  
like a fawn's eyes  
but brown not blue  
and wondered  
where had she been tricked  
and by who?


	64. Boston Butterfly

Boston Butterfly

He looks into the mirror  
and does not recognize the man he sees,  
once caged like a pet parakeet,  
he has finally been set free.

"Who are you?" he asks his reflection.  
It simply answers, "I am me."

He's grown new branches,  
filled with green leaves,  
like a virile oak tree.  
He refuses to be chained,  
ruled by any grandfatherly decree.

He has risen from the dust.  
Shaken off all the debris.

His palms have become calloused,  
sweat rings adorn his neck.

Apart from any zealotry or witchery,  
apathetic to any aristocracy,  
he looks toward the future  
utterly filled with glee.


End file.
